


Somewhere in Boston

by redwhale



Series: Pieces of Eight [1]
Category: American Gods (TV), Black Sails
Genre: (Hints at Mr. Wednesday's identity), (Mid-Season for American Gods), (Post-Canon for Black Sails), (Spoilers for Mad Sweeney's backstory), Angst, Dialogue Heavy, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Humor, M/M, Mid-Season, Past Violence, Post-Canon, Religion, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwhale/pseuds/redwhale
Summary: Mr. Wednesday tries to recruit the dread pirate Captain Flint for his war against the New Gods, and runs afoul of Thomas Hamilton in the attempt. Meanwhile, Shadow just wants a new goddamn book to read, is that so much to ask?Soon after, on the trail of Wednesday and Shadow, Laura and Mad Sweeney find themselves in a charming bookstore in Boston...





	Somewhere in Boston

**Author's Note:**

> Trailers for those who haven't seen [American Gods](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbPdUEQanAo) or [Black Sails](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pvxpv_fycl8). (Violence warning for both.)

**SHADOW MOON**

As weird as Wednesday's _'Stay Off The Damn Highway, Shadow'_ tour around America had been thus far, driving all the way to Boston just to visit a bookstore was still pretty up there. **  
**  
"Mind the step—though at least you shouldn't have to duck for once." Wednesday looked back at Shadow from over his shoulder. "Maybe I should start referring to you as the Colossus of Rhode Island."  
  
Shadow peered into the window of the bookstore, bracing his hand against the glass so that he could get a better look inside. "I've never been to... you know what, never mind."  
  
"Between you and Mad Sweeney, neither of you do wonders for my ego. Though, you know what they say about shorter men..."  
  
"No, I don't know what they say about shorter men. Before you continue, don't want to know, either," Shadow said. Wednesday gave Shadow a sly grin. Shadow, attempting to ignore the images that thought conjured up, concentrated on the pleasant ding from the entry bell as Wednesday pushed the bookstore door open.  
  
Wednesday had certainly taken Shadow to a lot of unique places in the last few months. There had been many diners, Kinko's, and a laundromat, not to mention some shady hotel rooms. They'd visited a movie theater with an unnaturally sticky floor, and a pizza parlor where Shadow wasn't entirely convinced that cheese had been used as the actual topping. A homely bookstore in Boston was something new, especially taking into account the extremely long detour it took to get there. Boston hadn't exactly been on Wednesday's destination list until after their temporary stint in jail and the meet and greet with Mr. World and his cronies—then suddenly it was _'Boston, Shadow, to Boston!'_ like they had been going there all along. Apparently, detouring to meet a 'Vulcan' in Kentucky would have to wait.  
  
They'd even stopped at a supermarket earlier to pick up a few things. Shadow, of course, found himself clutching the shopping list, whilst Wednesday charmed a woman unpacking oranges in the fruit and vegetables section.  
  
Wednesday even got her number.  
  
Shadow followed Wednesday through the aisles of the bookstore, inhaling that new book smell and feeling quite content. Bookstores held a comforting familiarity, and he had many fond memories from when his mother would take him as a child, holding his small hand gently in hers. She'd let him pick a book, her eyes bright and fond as she looked at him, and then they'd read it together. Books had always been an old friend growing up, and the lack of variety was something he'd endlessly missed in prison. Shadow had read a fuckton of history books—and that was great, he loved history—but some more variety wouldn't go astray.  
  
Wednesday, after pausing briefly in front of the History section, finally halted in front of the Classics. He hummed and hawed to himself for a moment, before finding his prize.  
  
"Did you ever read Treasure Island, my boy?" Wednesday said. He tapped the book's red cover.  
  
Shadow nodded. "Yeah. Preferred Muppet Treasure Island, though. Miss Piggy was kinda hot."  
  
Laura had found Kermit quite attractive in his weird little froggy captain's coat, so that had been a more than unusual bonding point when they first had started dating.  
  
Wednesday froze for a moment, heavy brows raised. "...hmm. And thus I continue to plumb the depths of the enigma that is Shadow Moon..."  
  
"What the hell are we doing here, anyway? It's been one hell of a detour."  
  
"We're here to visit some dear old friends of mine, it's been awhile. They never write, they never ring..."  
  
"You hate phone calls."  
  
"Well, a telegram, then," Wednesday said. "I would also accept mail via a carrier pigeon, if they were to be so inclined."  
**  
** An abrupt bang came from the aisle next to them. Shadow jolted in surprise, though Wednesday didn't so much as blink. The sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps drew closer and closer.  
  
"Ah." Wednesday turned to Shadow. "We should receive a warm welcome, though it may be a tad warmer than anticipated."  
  
"...and _how_ warm would that be, exactly?"  
**  
** Shadow wasn't sure how any kind of welcome could be worse than what they'd already experienced thus far on their journey.    
**  
** Wednesday exhaled a pleased ' _ah_ ' when a tall, fair-haired man rounded the high bookshelves. The man glowered at them, one hand clenched at his side, whilst the other gripped the edge of a bookshelf. As far as Shadow could see, the Romance section was one strong pull away from being toppled over. The man ignored Shadow completely, though, his focus entirely on Wednesday. **  
  
** "Wotan. We were wondering when you'd show your face." The man's voice was surprisingly low, his words sharp and clipped. An Englishman.  
  
"...that would be a _very_ warm welcome," Wednesday said.  
  
"Don't think we hadn't noticed that you'd sent your noisy little messengers to keep an eye on us," the man said. "I was _particularly_ delighted by one of your oversized pigeons leaving a gift on my newly—"  
  
The man took a step forward towards Wednesday.  "—polished—"  
  
Another step. Up close, the man towered over Wednesday, and was about the same height as Shadow. "—car."  
  
Wednesday looked up at the man with a grin. Shadow rubbed his forehead. _Shit_. They couldn't even go into a bookstore without causing a scene, or ruining a car, apparently.  
  
"Dr. Hamilton! As always, you're quite a sight for sore eyes." Wednesday put the copy of _Treasure Island_ under his arm, and reached up, straightening the man's tie. "My sincere condolences about the state of your Prius. I don't suppose—"  
  
The man pushed Wednesday's hand away. "Leave."  
  
"Thomas, my dear, I—" Wednesday backed up slightly, putting Shadow as a barrier between him and the angry man. When Wednesday first hired Shadow, Wednesday hadn't told him about the possibility of being accosted by furious shopkeepers that reminded him of his tenth grade English teacher.  
  
It was probably worth talking to Wednesday about upping the hazard pay.  
  
"Is this about that dinner party?" Wednesday said. "It was years ago. Water under the bridge."  
  
"It was _nine months ago,_ " Thomas said. "I thought I was going to lose my job."  
  
"Please, you were never in danger of that. I'm charming. I _charm._ It's what I do."  
  
"Only because you literally charmed everyone at the dinner."  
  
"Well, someone had to." Wednesday paused. "I've been to funerals with more vigor."  
  
Thomas bypassed Shadow with a step, and grabbed Wednesday's upper arm. With a firm tug, Thomas hauled Wednesday towards the entrance of the bookstore. Wednesday protested throughout, but Thomas' grip was solid, and Thomas pushed him out onto the street with ease. Wednesday stumbled, just a tad, and righted himself with a frown.  
  
Thomas stepped back, drawing himself up to his full height. He gestured at the open door, raising an eyebrow at Shadow. Shadow nodded in awkward agreement, following Wednesday out onto the sidewalk, with Thomas at his heels.  
  
"Thomas..." Wednesday's voice took on a shade that was more like an unspoken warning.  
  
Thomas ducked his head, so his gaze could meet Wednesday's.  
  
"If you contemplate stepping even so much as an inch back across this doorway, I will take every single book in this goddamn store with even the _slightest_ reference to you, and throw each and every one of them at your goddamn head." A vein in Thomas' neck jumped as he took a deep breath. "That will be step one. That will be the introduction. That will be the warning. That will be my attempt at being polite. I cannot emphasize how much you do not want to contemplate step two."  
  
Wednesday held up his hands. "I was just hoping to speak to the good Captain—"  
  
"James will want nothing to do with you."  
  
"If he doesn't, well, I was of the mind that some guidance from his rather charming better half would make him amendable to such an idea, if not entirely reevaluate the general circumstances."  
  
"...do you really think I'd let you drag him into your war?" Thomas said. "Have you finally gone _completely_ mad?"  
  
Wednesday's lip curled. "Aren't we all a little mad, really?"  
  
"Wait. ' _Captain_ '? You're talking about Flint from Treasure Island?" Shadow pointed to the book under Wednesday's arm. " _That_ Captain Flint?"  
  
Thomas stared at Shadow blankly, almost like he'd forgotten Shadow was there. "James did go by Captain Flint for a time, yes."  
  
"We are indeed here to see Captain Flint, though only with the blessing of his nearest and oh-so-dearest, of course." Wednesday bowed to Thomas. "Though these days the closest the dread pirate Captain Flint gets to piracy is a little tax evasion on the side. How I do quiver in fear."  
  
Thomas didn't blink. "It's for a rainy day fund."  
  
Shadow knew very little of Captain Flint outside of a few half-watched History Channel documentaries and Treasure Island adaptations. Flint was just a name to Shadow, admittedly one of the far more intimidating ones, like Blackbeard and the rest. Long John Silver you probably could have an amicable drink with, parrot and all. Calico Jack sounded like a good time. Captain Flint... well, Captain Flint just seemed like a name to get the fuck away from.  
  
It seemed unfortunate that Wednesday wanted to speak with the man.  
  
"...but isn't Flint dead?" Shadow said. It seemed like the grave couldn't hold a lot of people these days, Laura included.  
  
"He was very much alive as of an hour ago," Thomas said.  
  
"Well, that's certainly a relief," Wednesday said. "We would have come all this way for nothing."  
  
Thomas was Flint's partner by the sounds of it. Lover. Possible husband, judging by the gold band on his ring finger. Shadow gazed at Thomas, all six feet of tall and angry Englishman. If Thomas was supposed to be the charming better half, he was beginning to have some concerns about this Flint.  
  
Shadow looked Thomas up and down. "So, you're with Captain Flint? Miss Piggy was based on you?" Shadow wasn't sure that it had been a particularly flattering portrayal of Thomas, if so.  
  
Thomas immediately was taken aback. "No. Of course not."  
  
"You're much prettier," Wednesday said.  
  
"Enough. You and—"  
  
"Shadow, his name would be Shadow."  
  
"—Shadow. You and Shadow are not to step a foot back into this store. Go and spread your self-serving warmongering somewhere else," Thomas said. "And take your filthy pigeons with you."  
  
Wednesday shushed Thomas, holding a finger to his lips. "Don't refer to my darlings that way, you'll hurt their feelings."  
  
Thomas turned his back on them, dismissing them both with a brisk and surprisingly elegant wave of his hand. "Good day, gentlemen."  
  
"Thomas, wait," Wednesday said. " _Thomas_..."  
  
Thomas ignored Wednesday. As he walked away, the soles of his shoes imprinted old and dried red-brown blood on the sidewalk. Shadow had certainly seen his fair share of dried blood stains in prison, though usually under far more mundane circumstances. He watched in fascination as the bloodied footprints followed Thomas all the way to the bookstore door. The sight wasn't as viscerally disturbing as Czernobog's hammer dripping in thick, fresh blood, but it wasn't exactly what Shadow had expected, either.  
  
"This isn't the end of it, Doc," Wednesday called to Thomas, not noticing Shadow's concern. "I will knock on that door, on the hour, every hour, until you are willing to listen."  
  
Thomas slammed the bookstore door shut behind him, turning the sign on the door from 'OPEN' to 'CLOSED'. He left behind a red-brown imprint of his fingers and palm against the silver door handle. Shadow took a deep and steadying breath—and blinked.  
  
The sidewalk was clean, as was the door. No blood to be seen.  
  
"Thomas, meet Shadow," Wednesday said, gesturing to the closed bookstore. "Shadow, meet Thomas Hamilton, the bane of my fucking existence."  
  
"At least that went better than Czernobog," Shadow said, staring at the door. Thomas hadn't threatened to cave his head in with a hammer, so that was a start. The bloodied foot and handprints were a concern, though.  
  
"Thomas isn't likely to challenge you to a deadly game of checkers, I'll give him that much," Wednesday said, a little sullen. He gestured to a nearby bench, still clutching the copy of _Treasure Island_ in his hands. People on the street had frowned at Thomas' display, and were now giving Wednesday and Shadow a wide berth, which Shadow didn't think was the worst idea for everyone involved.  
  
Wednesday slumped on the bench, patting the empty space next to him for Shadow to sit. Wednesday frowned at the book on his lap.  
  
"Miss Piggy played the character of Ben Gunn in Muppet Treasure Island, though I can see the resemblance to young Tom." Wednesday tapped his own thick head of hair. "Same hair color."  
  
Shadow supposed he could almost see the similarity.  
  
Well. Not really.  
  
"Thomas has a touch of the divine, and the insufferable boy wants nothing to do with it. All that blood and sacrifice in his name! What a goddamn fucking waste," Wednesday said. "...though I did read his dissertation on Sartre. Not bad, though a little too wordy."  
  
Shadow couldn't fathom why anyone would be giving a tall and irritated man working in a bookstore any kind of blood sacrifices, but he had certainly learned over the last few months that it took all kinds.  
  
"Look, I know appearances can be deceiving, but Thomas doesn't look very powerful to me. Just tall," Shadow said, turning back to look in the direction of the closed bookstore. It was a shame they'd gotten thrown out, he'd wanted to browse the Biography section. He needed something new to read. Shadow had recently finished Wednesday's stack of vintage Playboys, genuinely for the articles.  
  
"Thomas isn't so powerful, not anymore, considering what little power he had to begin with. These days Thomas is just blessed with an indefinite and prolonged life, though aren't we all." Wednesday eyed Shadow. "Well, _some_ of us."  
  
"There could be worse things," Shadow said.  
  
"The Captain sporadically works at an abattoir, sacrifices a few cows and what have you in Thomas' name, and keeps Thomas looking all handsome, tanned, and properly English," Wednesday said. "Once, there were thousands upon thousands cowering in fear, and god knows how many slaughtered in Lord Hamilton's name and legacy. Now, there is nothing more than a few meager cows up for the slaughter. Not even one human. What an absolute disgrace."  
  
A lord, huh? Shadow stretched his legs out, settling back against the bench. Captain Flint and Lord Thomas Hamilton, what an odd pair. Shadow hoped Wednesday wasn't being all that literal with the 'slaughtered in Lord Hamilton's name and legacy' thing.  
  
Probably not. Most likely not.  
  
Shadow turned to gaze at the sidewalk again. The bloodied footprints didn't reappear.  
  
"Thomas doesn't seem like much of an obstacle to you, if he's really that powerless," Shadow said. He looked to the closed bookstore, feeling a little wary, as if even saying the word 'Thomas' would summon the man himself, like a tall fair-haired version of Bloody Mary. "Can't you just ignore him? I think I could take him in a fight, unless he's got some sort of mad martial arts skills or a secret James Bond thing going on." Shadow sat more upright. "Does he have a gun? Do I need to be worried about a gun?"  
  
"Number one." Wednesday held up a finger. "If something happens to Dr. Thomas Hamilton PhD, whether it be even the slightest hint of bruising or something so unassuming as a hurtful look, I will be in the path of Hurricane Fucking Flint, and that's not a decision I would ever be thinking to make lightly. Number two." Wednesday held up another finger. "When we're not arguing, I quite enjoy his company. Probably more so when we're arguing, if I'm to be honest."  
  
Shadow waited for Wednesday to finish. "Yeah, I'm guessing that's not the whole truth of it."  
  
"Clever." Wednesday chuckled at that, half to himself. "Well, number one is the bigger threat, though number two is valid, as I do enjoy Thomas' company. I'd previously considered offing the poor boy, blaming his death on the New Gods to get Flint on my side for a taste of revenge. Problem is, the good Captain would indiscriminately slaughter however many of us deities—some of us more handsome than others, mind—it would take to bring his dearest not-so-doubting Thomas back. Not worth the hassle, nor the danger."  
  
"Are you fucking with me?" Shadow said. Shadow turned to size Wednesday up, taking in the hunched posture and the thick head of dark curls. "So you'd easily kill a man that you've been that friendly with. Like it's nothing. I mean, that's a special kind of fucked up, even for you."  
  
Wednesday stared at Shadow, seeming genuinely surprised. "I would be very reluctant, mind, and only in great necessity. As I said, I have a great fondness for the boy."  
  
"Shit," Shadow said. "If that's what you're willing to do to someone you actually like, I've got some concerns about those you don't."  
  
Wednesday hummed to himself, with a slight smile.  
  
There was no honor among thieves it would seem, even godly ones. Flint's love for Thomas seemed rather sweet, though, albeit mildly terrifying. It did make the status of Laura's and Shadow's relationship seem a bit more normal, even considering the fact Laura no longer had a heartbeat.  
  
"So, what, Flint's really that much of a hassle?" Shadow said.  
  
Wednesday laughed at Shadow's question, loud and hearty. " _A hassle_ , you say? You have no idea of the sheer fucking hassle that man can be. The Captain is a nigh-unkillable lucky motherfucker. Bringer of storms when he wants to be, stealer of wind... I would like to say that his control has improved in that regard, but he's still rather unpredictable at the best of times, to be putting it mildly."  
  
"Well," Shadow said. "That's its own special kind of warning."  
  
"Oh, please, it's not like you'll need an umbrella and a riot shield, you'll be fine. I would also like to remind you of your distinct lack of body-guarding." Wednesday poked Shadow in the chest. "Thomas threw me out on the damn street."  
  
"He reminded me of my old schoolteacher, okay?" Shadow said, not being entirely dishonest. Mr. Marlowe and Thomas Hamilton certainly had an uncanny ability for a formidable glare. "I panicked."  
  
"Save us from fucking schoolteachers!" Wednesday said. "Ah! That's what I should fight my war with— _teachers_! Book in one hand, ruler in the other, the knuckles and buttocks of my enemies thoroughly striked."  
  
"If you haven't heard, corporal punishment in schools isn't legal anymore. What does it matter, anyway? Isn't the pen mightier than the sword?"  
  
"Don't you start with me," Wednesday said. "You've spent all of, what, two minutes in Saint Thomas' presence? You already sound like him. It's catching. It _must_ be catching, like a fucking contagious philosophical air-borne disease."  
  
Shadow ignored Wednesday, and rolled his stiff shoulders. It had been a long trip to Boston, with the two of them taking driving shifts and only a few stops along the way outside of the necessary call of nature. Shadow missed the feeling of sleeping in an actual goddamn bed. Even his prison bunk seemed like a retrospective luxury.  
  
"He's not even a real doctor," Wednesday said. "Doctor of philosophy, what the fuck is that. Doctors _heal_ people, not lecture them."  
  
"They do both if required. Have you ever even been to an actual doctor?"  
  
"No need, fit as a fiddle. Always have been, through the kindness of strangers. Though in this day and age, that kindness isn't something to be taken for granted."  
  
"'This day and age'?" Shadow said.  
  
"The _information_ age." Wednesday pointed to a young man in a suit walking past. He was holding his briefcase in one hand, and texting someone on his mobile with the other. Shadow was impressed by his multitasking.  
  
"So, can we go already?"  
  
"I did not come all the way to Boston to get reprimanded by Thomas Hamilton." Wednesday crossed his arms, looking surprisingly petulant for a middle-aged man. "I'm not moving from this spot until I can speak to the good Captain myself."  
  
"Great," Shadow said. "That's just fucking great."  
  
" _But_..." Wednesday nudged Shadow's shoulder. "There's a Starbucks around the corner."  
  
"So?"  
  
Wednesday nudged him again. "...if you'd be so kind."  
  
"I'm your goddamn bodyguard, not your errand boy," Shadow said.  
  
It was a lie, and they both knew it. If the thought of coffee wasn't so tempting, Shadow would have left him there.

~

At a healthy height of six foot two, it wasn't exactly _easy_ for Shadow to find himself a comfortable position on a shitty street bench, but by god had Shadow tried. With his coffee finished, boredom had quickly left him reaching for the copy of _Treasure Island_. He flipped through the pages, careful not to damage the spine. He halted on the picture of Flint's map at the front of the book. Shadow traced a finger across the island, over the hills, trees, and inlets. Spyeglass Hill, Rum Cove—both locations sounded suitably piratey.  
  
Shadow flipped through the book again, opening a page a random. " _'Why shiver me timbers, if I hadn't forgotten my score.'_ C'mon. Did they really talk like that?"  
  
Wednesday smiled. "Only when drunk."  
  
"Not even then," a gruff voice said. A bearded, auburn-haired man was frowning down at them both, with a bag of groceries in each hand. Another Englishman, judging by the accent, though this one was shorter and bulkier than the last.  
  
"Captain!" Wednesday slapped his hand on the back of the bench in delight. "Just the man I was looking for!"  
  
"The answer is no."  
  
"...but I haven't even asked my question yet," Wednesday said.  
  
"The answer is still no." The man's voice was a low rumble, the ebb and flow of his words almost like the pull of the tide. Shadow had the claustrophobic impression of itchy, coarse sand filling up his shoes, digging in right between his toes. Just for a moment, he could have sworn that he caught the scent of brine in the air.  
  
"Can't you picture it, Captain?" Wednesday said. "The two of us, the wind and the sea combining into a torrent of unstoppable fury. With your tactics and blade, and my wind at your back—!"  
  
The feel of rough sand and the smell of brine disappeared as quickly as they came. Shadow wiggled his toes, expecting to feel the sharp scratch of the sand to return at any moment.  
  
"Thomas threw you out on your ear, didn't he," the man said. There was only the slightest uplifting at the corners of his mouth, but there was a definite, albeit miniscule, smile.  
  
Wednesday sagged. "Very promptly."  
  
"I leave Thomas in charge for an hour, and you show up. He must be thrilled."  
  
"That's certainly one way of putting it," Wednesday said. "Can Shadow here offer a friendly helping hand with your bags?"  
  
"No."  
  
Shadow sighed. Lazy bastard, he could have at least offered to carry the groceries himself.  
  
"So _you're_ the infamous Captain Flint?" Shadow said. Shadow supposed—with some jewelry,  a remarkable coat, and a sword—he could see the man as a pirate. Shadow held up the copy of _Treasure Island_. "This is you?"  
  
Flint scowled at the book. "I was Captain Flint—once."  
  
Shadow took him in, not really sure what to make of Captain Flint in the flesh. "To be honest, you're shorter than I imagined."  
  
"Sorry to disappoint," Flint said. Shadow didn't think he sounded very sorry at all, actually.  
  
A loud bang came from behind them. The three of them turned to see Thomas striding out of the bookstore, still on a war path of his own. " _You didn't pay for the book_ , _you_ —oh, James. You're back."  
  
Flint's frown softened at the sight of Thomas. "Thomas." Flint lifted the bags of groceries. "I brought lunch."  
  
"Lunch? Well, we must invite ourselves, mustn't we, Shadow? We're parched, starved, haven't eaten in days!" Wednesday said, as if the situation had been completely resolved with no hard feelings whatsoever.  
   
Shadow turned to Thomas. "He's lying, he had an extra sausage McMuffin this morning."  
  
Wednesday stared at Shadow, aghast. "I was not expecting you—of all people—to betray me in such a profound way, Shadow Moon."  
  
Thomas seemed torn between absolute fury and complete frustration, so it was Flint who headed for the bookstore, stopping to greet Thomas on the way past. Flint touched his forehead to Thomas' temple for just a moment, and murmured something in Thomas' ear. It was too low for either Shadow or Wednesday to hear, though Shadow could feel Wednesday straining over Shadow's shoulder to try. It took a moment, but Thomas reluctantly nodded in agreement to whatever Flint had said, receiving a firm kiss on the cheek in response. Thomas only slightly rolled his eyes in Flint's direction as Flint went on without him.  
  
Thomas crossed his arms. "Well, you might as well come in, then."  
  
"And so the beauty tamed the beast. Or the beast tamed the beauty." Wednesday pulled himself up from the bench with a groan. "The power of love, Shadow. Take it in, savor it, make it your own."  
  
"Hey, I've loved. I love. I'm still in love," Shadow said. Shadow acknowledged Thomas with a nod. "My wife is undead."  
  
"Oh," Thomas said. "That's—oh."  
  
Shadow had the impression that Thomas wasn't lost for words very often.  
  
"Close your mouth, Thomas, you look extremely undignified. You will all have a lot to talk about, actually, plenty in common all-round." Wednesday nudged Shadow in the arm. "You've both been in prison..."  
  
Shadow did a curious double-take at that, but Thomas' expression was icy.  
  
"...however unjust that imprisonment was on your part, darling," Wednesday said to Thomas, with great haste. "Not to mention the unjust tragedy of the Captain thinking that Thomas was dead for ten years, and Shadow, _you_ thought your wife was _dead_ -dead for a few weeks..."  
  
Thomas furrowed his brows, his expression thawing slightly. "Well, I was never actually _dead_ , let alone undead..."  
  
"Potato, potahto. Speaking of which, what's for lunch?" Wednesday stretched up to put an arm around Thomas' shoulder. Thomas flinched at Wednesday's touch, but he had nowhere to escape to.  
  
"Sorry, man. This is yours," Shadow said, offering Thomas the copy of _Treasure Island_. "Do you have a good sporting biography you could recommend? It's been awhile."  
  
Shadow was hoping Wednesday could last a few hours without getting them thrown out of the bookstore so Shadow could at least have _some_ time to browse. As a bonus, the store was pleasant, clean, and didn't bring back memories of the unnervingly sticky movie theater floor, let alone the unhygienic pizza parlor. The new book smell was nice, too.  
  
Thomas seemed surprised at Shadow's request. He nodded, and took the book, staring at its cover for a moment. "I can think of a few books—if that's what you'd like."  
  
"Do you have anything for me?" Wednesday said. "I brought _you_ a gift."  
  
"James has some new rare acquisitions that we could argue over later, I suppose," Thomas said. "Some Nietzsche, which you always seem to revel in."  
  
"You always give me the most wonderful presents, my boy. Shadow will reimburse you for the books, of course."  
  
"You like Nietzsche? Come on, isn't that a bit too ironic, even for you?" Shadow said.  
  
"Nietzsche and I are of the same mind," Wednesday said. "We fear what would befall society if humanity was to be without values and principles."  
  
"... _christ_..." Thomas tried to loosen himself from Wednesday's iron grip, but he wasn't having an easy time of it.  
  
"Speaking of the good preacher man, both my friend Nietzsche and I think Christianity is supremely overrated," Wednesday said to Shadow. "But don't tell the Jesuses I said that. They'll get upset, poor dears."  
  
"Oh, please. Your values and your philosophy begin and end with yourself." Thomas emerged victorious from Wednesday's grasp. "You don't care for _humanity_. You're afraid you'll be forgotten, and that you'll fade into obscurity. Poor Wotan. A relic of bygone era. Who in the hell will care enough to worship you then?"  
  
"Your accusations could not be further from the truth, my boy, I care deeply about humanity," Wednesday said.  
  
Thomas stared down at Wednesday, unblinking. Wednesday gazed back for a moment, before conceding defeat with a frustrated huff.  
  
"I care. A little." Wednesday straightened his coat. "I scratch their backs, they scratch mine, it's a mutually beneficial agreement. So if Saint Thomas could forgoeth the judgment on my poor soul for just a few hours, I would be very much obliged. For the sake of the good Captain, of course."  
  
Thomas closed his eyes. "Fine."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Thomas headed towards the bookstore, though this time, it was more like a man on his final walk to the gallows. Shadow could definitely relate.  
  
"I will say, Thomas, you always think nothing but the worst of me," Wednesday said, as he and Shadow walked behind Thomas. "You continually wound me."  
  
Thomas muttered something under his breath as he pushed the door of the bookstore open.  
  
"I heard that." Wednesday followed Thomas inside.  
  
"Good," Thomas said. "You were meant to."  
  
Shadow closed the door, sighing. The bickering showed no signs of stopping, apparently.  
  
"What sustenance did you bring forth from the sea, Captain?" Wednesday called, knocking on the doorframe. He rubbed his hands together, looking around in curiosity for Flint.  
  
There was silence. Flint backed out of the side room near the counter, and stared at the three of them blankly. "... salad, some fruit. Bread and deli meat, for sandwiches."  
  
"Let me be of assistance," Wednesday said.  
  
"That's really not all that necessary."  
  
"Nonsense, my boy, nonsense. Happy to help. I am but a humble servant."  
  
"...if I let you help, will you stop pestering me?"

~

Shadow had found himself becoming a reluctant bystander alongside Thomas for the charade that was to be their lunch. They silently watched Flint and Wednesday unpacking the shopping bags and setting out paper plates and knives and forks, Wednesday chatting to Flint all the while. Flint's replies became more and more half-hearted as they went along. Shadow slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket, feeling Zorya Polunochnaya's coin. It was the moon, she had said—this old silver dollar she had gifted him. The coin was smooth and cool, and its touch was something he now frequently used as a comfort. Doing tricks with it would be a nice distraction to alleviate some of the tension, but the coin was too cold, there would be too much slide.  
  
Shadow looked at Thomas out of the corner of his eye. _Small talk_. Shadow could _absolutely_ do small talk. "Dr. Hamilton, was it?  
  
"There is no need for Dr. Hamilton," Thomas said. "'Thomas' is fine."  
  
"Thomas, then. So, uh. What were you in prison for?"  
  
...yeah, Shadow could absolutely _not_ do small talk.  
  
Prison was at least something they had in common, though. Shadow knew enough from his own time in prison that you couldn't always guess what someone had truly done, even if they were willing to talk to you about it in the first place. Thomas he wasn't sure of. Thomas seemed well-put together, so what he had done was either something relatively harmless, or super fucked up. Shadow didn't think there would be much of in-between.  
  
Thomas did not take his eyes off Flint and Wednesday. "I wanted to pardon the pirates of Nassau in a time of war, for both social and financial benefit. My father feared the political ramifications for himself and the family name to the point that it was better to brand me certifiable and send me to a madhouse, despite my wife's desperate protestations. That was the last time I ever saw her."  
  
Shadow started in surprise, clenching his coin hard enough that it dug into his palm. Thomas' pain was a horror Shadow knew all too well.  
  
"We were betrayed by my closest friend who sold out my now husband and I for an impressive title and hint of power," Thomas said. "Ten years later the pardons were successfully implemented and utilized by others, and in turn, our suffering was made even more senseless again."  
  
Well, damn. That put robbing the casino into perspective.  
  
"I'm truly sorry about your wife," Shadow said.  
  
Thomas nodded, still observing Flint and Wednesday. Wednesday was gesturing dramatically as he spoke, and Flint watched Wednesday in turn with a kind of horrified fascination.  
  
"And yourself?" Thomas said.  
  
 Shadow swallowed. "I... I just tried to rob a casino."  
  
"Is that so?" Thomas said, though not unkindly. "A large casino?"  
  
"Not really an Ocean's Eleven type of deal, no. But I did get out of prison a few days early on account of my wife dying in a car accident."   
  
"My condolences." This time, Thomas was far more sympathetic, finally turning away from the awkward spectacle in front of them to look at Shadow. There was a regretful understanding in his gaze, and no trace of mockery. Audrey had understood Shadow, too, but her understanding was accompanied by a furious grief. These days, Shadow found himself too tired to be angry at either Laura or Robbie, and Laura being _dead_ -but-not-dead made everything more complicated again.  
  
Laura's death had been a joke to Sweeney, and her life and death was of no consequence to Wednesday. Someone actually giving a shit about her was kind of nice. Shadow had to wonder where Laura was now.  
  
He missed her.  
  
"Your wife—you said she was 'undead'?" Thomas said. He began to absentmindedly fidget with the gold band on his ring finger, turning it back and forth, back and forth. Shadow assumed Thomas didn't want to offend when the situation was so delicate. Shadow couldn't blame Thomas, either, considering Shadow couldn't get his head around the whole concept himself.  
  
"Yeah. Her name was Lau—no. Her name _is_ Laura."  
  
"And your Laura is... still dead?"  
  
"Very. Just animated."  
  
Thomas ran his hand through his hair, nose scrunched in discomfort. "Ah."  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
"And you're positive it's her?"  
  
"' _Men trust their ears less than their eyes'_ ," Shadow said. Thomas and Wednesday seemed to use philosophy as an arguing point, so why not. Shadow's old bunkmate had introduced him to Herodotus, but Herodotus didn't cover what happened when you weren't sure that you could even trust your eyes.  
  
The mention of Herodotus immediately drew Thomas' attention. He smiled at Shadow, and it was the look of a cheeky schoolboy indulging in a private joke.  
  
"Herodotus! James isn't as much of a fan, though I have no idea why. Quite frankly, I think James just dislikes him just to be contrary," Thomas said, his smile widening as he looked at Flint. Flint had now purposefully turned his back on Wednesday, but that hadn't deterred Wednesday in the slightest.    
  
Shadow gave Thomas a small, awkward grin back. "An acquaintance introduced me in prison."  
  
Shadow's bunkmate moved on, of course, they always did. This one had done so with a stilted laugh and a lopsided grin, leaving _Histories_ and some coins behind for Shadow as a gift. Shadow would often reread _Histories_ in his down time, holding the book in one hand as he absentmindedly practiced coin flips with the other. Shadow never had a particular interest in philosophy when he was younger, but something about Herodotus' words clicked for him.  
  
The moon coin had warmed up in Shadow's palm. It was nearly _too_ warm for coin tricks; there would be as much slide as if the coin was cold. Shadow rubbed the coin between his fingers all the same, scrunching his hand further into his coat.  
  
"It's funny, 'cause here's the thing either way... Laura did die, and finding out was the worst fucking day of my life, but now she's walking around, and I really didn't think that was possible, do you?" Shadow said. It was a bit awkward, questioning Thomas as if the man could give him the answers Shadow was after. As a positive, Thomas appeared fairly down to earth and sensible, which was a quality lacking in a lot of both Wednesday's friends and enemies that Shadow had met thus far.  
  
"...no. The dead walking the earth is something beyond my purview," Thomas said. "James did meet a Jesus once, though I'm not sure which Jesus it was."  
  
"What was he like?" Shadow said, playing along, because he was either going mad or there really was a Jesus—or Jesuses—walking the earth once again. This fact was still quite confronting, as Shadow had previously never considered the thought that 'he'—or _they_ —had ever existed in the first place. Shadow's undead wife was also a concept that now seemingly existed, so Shadow was still most likely losing his mind, anyway.  
  
"Hmm, Jesus? Pleasant enough," Thomas said. "He told James he forgave him of his sins, and then brought him a coffee. James walked around in a daze for a week."  
  
Being forgiven by Jesus plus a free coffee sounded like a trip. Maybe Shadow shouldn't have started the conversation sober.

~

The food Flint had brought was simple, but good. It was an appetizing sight after weeks of takeaway, and the aroma of freshly baked bread made Shadow's stomach grumble in delight, carbs be dammed. Thomas offered Shadow a spare chair with a slight smile of acknowledgement. Shadow was off Thomas' shit list, apparently, even if Wednesday was not so lucky.  
  
Along with upping the hazard pay, Wednesday should pay Shadow extra for bonding with the husband of a legendary feared pirate over philosophy.  
  
Quite frankly, that was above and beyond the call of a bodyguard.  
  
The four of them inevitably found themselves situated around the counter in a stand-off, with no one quite willing to make the first move to eat. Flint initially sat, but Thomas had been unable to settle, standing tall over Flint's shoulder. The towering protective husband shtick was kind of sweet. Shadow inevitably used to do the same for Laura, not that Laura ever needed protecting. From what Shadow had heard about Flint, even just purely from the dramatic History Channel reenactments, he didn't really think Flint was in need of protecting, either.  
  
"Oh!" Wednesday hit Shadow on the arm in realization. "How rude of me. I brought gifts."  
  
Wednesday reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a cheap fountain pen and a bottle of rum.  
  
"I think you'll find that _I_ brought the gifts while _you_ chatted up a girl in the fruit section," Shadow said, rubbing his arm.  
  
"I worked _through_ you, Shadow, through you," Wednesday said."I work in mysterious ways."  
  
Shadow shook his head, his hunger overriding the perpetual awkwardness of the entire situation. Shadow made sure to pile the ham on his bread, and grabbed lettuce and some sliced tomato. He layered on some cheese, and then stared down at his creation in quiet contentment. After years in prison, sometimes just the little things in life could bring you great joy.  
  
"For you." Wednesday offered the fountain pen to Thomas. After a pause, Thomas sighed. He reached forward and took it, with a mumbled thanks.  
  
Wednesday handed Flint a small bottle of rum. "And the finest rum, just for you."  
  
More like the cheapest. Shadow had seen the price tag.  
  
Flint stared at it, frowning. "It appears your sense of humor unfortunately continues to be intact."  
  
Wednesday smiled. "I thought rum would be more to your taste, though I do have some soma for another old acquaintance. That isn't to say I'm not fond of you, dear Jim, but the soma was not as easy to acquire as the rum."  
  
"Your generosity is endlessly appreciated," Flint said, flatly. Thomas handed a sandwich to Flint, mouthing 'Jim?' to himself, as if Thomas couldn't comprehend referring to Flint in such a manner.  
  
It was now quite apparent where Wednesday had the inspiration for James O'Gorman from—well, 'Jimmy' to his friends. Shadow wasn't about to tell either Flint or Thomas that Wednesday used Flint's first name as part of a con to rob a bank.  
  
"Thank you—to you both—for inviting us for lunch," Shadow said, attempting to lighten the mood.  
  
"Well, _he_ —" Thomas gestured to Wednesday, settling back against the wall behind Flint with his own salad "—invited himself to lunch, but the sentiment is appreciated."  
  
They all stared at each other.  
  
"You're both looking well," Wednesday said.  
  
Flint grunted.  
  
"Still sacrificing on the side for Thomas?"  
  
Flint abruptly put down his sandwich. Some lettuce tumbled onto his lap. "Can we not discuss this over lunch?"  
  
"The thought of a little blood unappetizing for you, Captain? I thought it would be the opposite."  
  
Thomas pointed his plastic fork at Wednesday. "Continue that line of thought, and you'll find yourself back on the street."  
  
Wednesday grinned. "Look at you. I'd forgotten how much I'd missed you both. I really should visit more often."  
  
Judging by Flint's and Thomas' expressions, both of them vehemently disagreed with this sentiment. Shadow took a bite of his sandwich. The afternoon was most likely going to be a trainwreck, but at least the food was good.  
  
"Nancy says hello," Wednesday said.  
  
Flint carefully put the lettuce back onto his plate. "I hadn't realized we were on speaking terms."  
  
"I didn't say that you were, just that he said hello." Wednesday dropped his gaze to Flint's stomach. "He also to said to avoid any more candied treats if you're going to fit into that expensive bespoke suit Thomas ordered."  
  
A slight flush darkened Flint's neck. "That's a lot of speaking despite not being on speaking terms."  
**  
** Along with upping the hazard pay with irritated shopkeeper tax, Shadow was starting to think Wednesday should give him a bonus for mediation.  
  
Shadow just wanted some goodamn books, was that really so much to ask? **  
**  
"Look, Wednesday is recruiting for his war against the New Gods," Shadow said. "We're heading to Wisconsin, if you're interested."  
  
"And a great gathering there shall be," Wednesday said. "We make for The House on the Rock. There will be some folks you know, and some you've never met. There will also be souvenirs, Thomas, I know how you like those. The real kitchy ones."  
  
Thomas didn't look up from his salad. "Don't go out of your way on my account."  
  
"Wotan knows that we're not interested, at any rate. That's not why he's here," Flint said to Shadow, not taking his eyes off of Wednesday.  
  
"Seriously? It isn't? We came all the way to Boston for sandwiches?" Shadow said, before catching himself. "I mean, no offence, Captain. Thanks for lunch."  
  
"Not sandwiches, we're here for something far more important than that." Wednesday settled back in his chair, sandwich in hand. "Though the sandwiches I will not bemoan, no sir. It is an honor to break bread with you."  
  
"Okay," Shadow said, "so what the _fuck_ is this all for?"  
  
"Loyalty," Wednesday said. The word was spoken in good-humour, but the effect was immediate. Flint and Thomas abruptly went very still.  
  
"Loyalty on the eve of war. Loyalty is not so much to ask after all I have done for you both. I wanted to make sure that you were both on my side. Shadow has already proven himself, and this fine young man here is as loyal as they come. I am now waiting—with baited breath—to see if the same can be said for the two of you."  
  
"You are well aware that we would never make a deal with any of them," Thomas said.  
  
"Is that so? No sniffing around the skirts of any other undesirables, no matter how lustrous the rewards?" Wednesday took a bite of his own sandwich, which had way too much mustard for Shadow's liking. "Hmm, this isn't half bad."  
  
"There is no sniffing," Flint said. "There are no rewards."  
  
"So you say," Wednesday said. "I wanted to be making sure, with my own eye and my own two ears, that we had an understanding."  
  
"We're not interested in any fighting, or taking a side—"  
  
"Please, Captain, as if the offers wouldn't be tempting," Wednesday said. "There would be no more need to sacrifice those poor cows in dear Thomas' name! They'd offer you something bigger. Better. More fame. They'd get you more books, a television series, a movie. Bring the truth of Captain Flint to light, the tragedy of James McGraw, and the forgotten Thomas Hamilton. Hell. Maybe there would be merchandise."  
  
James Flint. James McGraw. James O'Gorman. Well, Shadow really wasn't going to mention the specifics of Wednesday's con now, to Flint or Thomas. Shadow sighed. He contemplated making another sandwich, but felt like it was jumping head first into a war zone, with the deli meats and salad in the center of the battlefield. Shadow stuck his hand into his pocket instead, feeling for the coin. Damnit. It had gone cold since he had last held it.  
  
"Fine." Flint abandoned his half-eaten sandwich, and pushed his plate across the counter. He looked up at Thomas, who nodded in return. "If you must know, one of them showed up via the television. The woman. I turned down her offer."  
  
"Did you really?" Wednesday said.  
  
"Of course he did. He also threw a _very_ expensive paperweight into our far more expensive television to get his point across," Thomas said. "In the aftermath, we spent weeks with every damn screen in the house unplugged, even forgoing our mobile phones. Absurd, really. As if that would help if she wanted to make a point."  
  
"Did she show up as Lucille Ball for you, too?" Shadow said, not wanting to interrupt, but unable to contain his curiosity. Thomas and Flint looked at him in surprise.  
  
"...no," Flint said.  
  
Shadow wasn't about to tell either of them that she had asked if he wanted to see Lucy's tits.  
  
"What form did she take for you, Captain?" Judging by Wednesday's widening grin, he already seemed to know.  
  
Flint ignored Wednesday, rocking back on his chair in a manner that Shadow's mother would have reprimanded Shadow for. "I don't know why you're concerned. I'm barely a threat to you, especially in comparison to some of the acquaintances you tend to keep."  
  
"O, Captain, my captain," Wednesday said. "Well, they—with a capital 't'—fear you, which is reason enough. They don't fear you as much as they do Czernobog, mind, but they do fear you more than me. Which is an affront of the utmost order, considering that you are not a god. But I'm here because I value you, Captain, you're my knight in shining armor—next to Shadow, of course."  
  
Shadow pulled his coin out of his pocket and tossed it in the air, catching it with his hand. He rubbed his thumb across the coin. It just needed a bit more heat.  
  
"If I asked you to protect your king, my dearest hope is that you would move G1 to F4, without much protest." Wednesday had finished his sandwich, and now looked down at his paper plate, more than a little mournful. "Can I have another?"  
  
Flint gestured to the counter. "Go head."  
  
"Look, Captain," Wednesday said, spinning his stained paper plate with his hands. Shadow winced, waiting for the inevitable mustard fling, but somehow Wednesday spun the plate quick enough that it never happened. "Let's get to the heart of the matter, hmm? You're quick in a fight, a lot quicker than most. More importantly, with my wind and your water, we could create a flood the likes of which they'll be talking about for centuries. A flood of biblical proportions, with a suitably pants-pissingly large storm to accompany it. You need the sea?" Wednesday tossed the plate off to the side. It landed on the floor, right side up. Heads. " _I'll bring you the goddamn sea_."  
  
"Yes, drown everyone, that will solve your problems," Thomas said.  
  
"Oh, I don't want to drown everyone—just enough destruction on a small scale for the young gods to remember where the real power lies, and it isn't being worshipped by dull-eyed masses via tiny little screens. Let the good people of America remember the gods who came before, and pray for their salvation," Wednesday said. "Fairly straightforward, all things considered—if the Captain would just lend me his sword hand."  
  
"Leave," Thomas said. Thomas went to Flint, his broad hands protectively grasping Flint's shoulders. Flint looked up at him in surprise.  
  
"No, I really don't think I shall," Wednesday said. "Shadow and I are having a perfectly pleasant time."  
  
Shadow warmed his coin between his palms. "Leave me the hell out of it, okay? I'm just your secretary."  
  
" _Aide-de-camp_ , Shadow, it has more gravitas. And neither one of us are leaving until I have some assurance that there will be no looking for their help, no matter how dire the situation you may find yourselves in." Wednesday put his hand on his chest, bowing slightly forward. "You will come to me first."  
  
"As I said, I would never go to them," Flint said.  
  
"Oh, come _the fuck on_ , Captain," Wednesday said. "Forgive me my apparent fucking disrespect, but I don't think my concerns are far from unwarranted."  
  
"...and why would that be?" Thomas said. His knuckles were turning white from gripping Flint's shoulders. His tight grasp must have hurt, but Flint made no sign of any discomfort.  
  
"Because I saw _exactly_ what happened the first time he lost you!" Wednesday bellowed, standing up. He banged his fist against the counter. Thomas jolted in surprise. "It was fan-fucking-tastic and wonderful, mind. One of the best decades of my very, very long life. The dread pirate Captain Flint, more feared, and said to be even more monstrous than Avery, Morgan, and Teach combined. And unlike _their_ comparatively mindless plunder, Captain Flint had a focus! A war started against England because of you. A war against England stopped— _stopped_!—because of you."  
  
Shadow looked down at his coin. Well, shit.  
  
"You know damn well that it wasn't that simple," Thomas said, releasing Flint from his grasp. Flint reached out to stop Thomas, but abruptly pulled his hand back, seeming to think better of it.  
  
"The loathsome things he did with his bare hands in your name, because he lost _you_ , because you were taken from him and your wife. And then what happened when he lost _her_! The devastation was truly a sight to behold," Wednesday said. "Lady Hamilton was a formidable woman, I must say, and her loss profound."  
  
Shadow shook his head at the complete lack of subtly. He could speak from experience: never casually mention a dead spouse when you want something from someone.  
  
Thomas stared at Wednesday for a moment, his eyes wide in shock. "How _dare_ you—" Thomas' face abruptly contorted in fury "—even _consider_ bringing Miranda into this."  
  
Wednesday raised a pacifying hand. "Do not think I mean to disrespect her memory, because that is far from my intention. I would have been honored to have met her."  
  
"She would have loathed you," Flint said, quietly.  
  
Wednesday inclined his head. "The honor would have been mine regardless."  
  
A part of Shadow wondered if he really would have to step in, not that he thought Wednesday didn't deserve what was coming to him. Shadow could most likely take Thomas or Flint one at a time. Flint was, as Robbie would have said, built like a brick shithouse. Thomas was taller, a little leaner, but was fairly solid himself. Judging by Flint's reputation, Shadow would have a considerably easier time with Thomas, but both of them working together might be harder. It would be harder again if Flint could control the tap water or something, and decided he'd like to drown Shadow instead.  
  
If he was honest with himself, Shadow was still having trouble reconciling the tales of the Captain Flint that terrorized the Bahamas with the exhausted and hunched man in front of him. Flint just seemed like a normal guy. A bit grumpy, sure, but not really the stuff of serious History Channel documentaries or pirating legend.  
  
The coin was finally warm enough, though, and Shadow indulged himself. He danced the coin across his knuckles, enjoying the rhythmic familiarity.

~

Shadow had found there were many kind of silences in life.  
  
There was a silence right before a shiv was introduced deep into a man's gut. There was a silence right before you got an answer to a question you didn't really want to ask. There was a silence right before a storm.  
  
There was also the kind of silence that was more deafening than any yell.  
  
Shadow clasped his coin between his palms. He kept looking warily between Flint, Thomas, and Wednesday, waiting to see who would break the stand-off first. Thomas and Wednesday hadn't moved, and Flint was staring at his hands.  
  
"Your war and my war, Captain, they're not so different," Wednesday said, his voice suddenly very loud in the quiet.  
  
If Shadow was honest, he wasn't sure if the tactic change was going to do Wednesday any favors.  
  
Thomas stared at Wednesday, still wide-eyed and furious. "They couldn't possibly be more different, considering all you do is in self-interest. You don't want change. You never did. You're wanting to delay the inevitable, and the newer gods are a convenient excuse. The problem with you, I wonder, is how much could ever be enough? Is there a limit to your gluttony? Your greed? For the stories they tell about you, it seems like there is no end to your thirst for knowledge, and more importantly, _your taste_ _for war_."  
  
"You're up on your high horse, judging _me_ over your own goddamn husband?" Wednesday said. "There was some nobility to his cause, I'll give him that, doubly so when he teamed up with Nancy's people—but I call bullshit that it also wasn't part vengeance, part self-indulgence by the end, Captain, because your Lord and Lady were dead and you had nothing else left."  
  
Flint actually laughed at that, to Shadow's surprise. It was a harsh laugh, and Flint's shoulders shook in barely contained amusement.  
  
"Well, there were others you had grown to care for..." Wednesday said, a little sly. "But we know how those tales ended, don't we."  
  
Flint stopped laughing long enough to catch his breath. He slouched back in his chair. "I'm sure you'll be more than happy to refresh my memory."  
  
"See?" Wednesday said. "He knows the truth of it, Saint Thomas, and deep down, you know it, too. But please, defend the fuck away. Here I was not realizing you'd been so wholly approving of all he's done."  
  
Thomas snorted. "Spare me your arrogance."  
  
"My arrogance?" Wednesday said. " _My_ goddamn arrogance? Arrogance was your downfall, my lord, not mine, and you took your wife and your sailor down with you."  
  
Flint started in surprise. He wasn't laughing now. "You have absolutely no fucking idea what you're talking about, old man."  
  
"Pride comes before a fall, as they say," Wednesday said. "And what a fall for our Lord Hamilton."  
  
Thomas held himself very still. "...I am well aware of the consequences of my actions."  
  
"Thomas, _no_. We've been through this." Flint sat forward on his chair, looking up at Thomas in earnest. "He's full of shit, and you know it."  
  
Thomas shook his head. "He isn't wrong."  
  
" _Thomas—_ " _  
_  
"...but of those I await to receive judgment from," Thomas said, squaring his shoulders, "it will never be from _him_."  
  
Thomas and Wednesday stared at each other. There was a smirk curling at Wednesday's mouth, and Thomas, though otherwise calm, twisted his gold wedding ring back and forth on his finger.  
  
Shadow looked down at his hand, where his own thick, silver wedding band once held pride of place. Wednesday was just cruelly prodding old wounds again, dredging up Thomas' grief and uncertainties to get what he wanted.  
  
...just like when Wednesday and Shadow had first met.  
  
"You know what? This is bullshit," Shadow said. "I'll be outside."  
  
"The hell you will," Wednesday said, turning to him in surprise. "What happened to protect and serve?"  
  
"There's protect and serve, and then there's puttin' your whole fucking hand into a beehive and wondering why you get stung." Shadow straightened his jacket. "Again, I'll be outside."  
  
"No, Shadow, you should stay," Thomas said. "You should know who you're working for, and _exactly_ what he wants."  
  
"Oh, _here_ we go..." Wednesday rolled his eyes. "Please, Dr. Hamilton. Do enlighten the class with your wisdom."  
  
Thomas was quite intimidating in his focus when he glanced over to Shadow. "Your employer misses his gilded throne, Mr. Moon, and he wants another to replace it, not caring how much death and destruction is left in his wake."  
  
Wednesday huffed. "Thomas, really—"  
  
"What James fought for, and what you want is in no way comparable, _Mr. Wednesday_. Who is oppressing you— _you_ , of all people? And who, in your self-sacrificing nobility, are you defending?" Thomas bent closer to Wednesday, with a grimace of disgust. "...but we both know the answer to that, don't we. No one but yourself."  
  
Wednesday looked up at Thomas in genuine wonderment. "You truly think that little of me, don't you." Wednesday shook his head. "Well. Haven't times changed."  
  
Thomas recoiled at that, his jaw held tightly.  
  
"It's all comes down to survival of the fittest, my boy." Wednesday offered a hand to Thomas. "I'm trying to protect you both as much as myself."  
  
Thomas didn't move to take Wednesday's hand. "We won't be making any deals with them, I promise you."  
  
"Forgive me for my not-so petty concerns that our long-standing friendship would be tossed by the wayside if something happened to _little-ole-you_." Wednesday poked Thomas' chest for emphasis.  
  
"James wouldn't," Thomas said.  
  
" _'James wouldn't'_ , he says! James absolutely fuckin' would, sunshine, and you know it."  
  
Thomas' lips parted, and the growing concern on his face was raw enough for Shadow to interject. "Wednesday, come on, man. Leave it."  
  
"...Captain, if something were to happen to Thomas, and the only way to get him back was with their help, what would you do?" Wednesday gently pushed Thomas to the side, suddenly without a hint of judgment.  
  
Flint had no answer to give.  
  
"James—" Thomas said, his voice hoarse, turning back to Flint. Flint wouldn't look at him, head bowed and hands clasped.  
  
"See? That's why I came to see you both. You'd come to me first, surely. Ask for my help, Captain. I'd return Thomas to you even before you had time to miss him. Electrocute a few fields worth of cows, maybe, so Thomas doesn't have to worry about any more humans being added to the body count in his name," Wednesday said. "...and _what a body count it is_."  
  
Shadow didn't think it was a good idea to mention that Wednesday had seemingly contemplated ways of ending Thomas himself to get Flint on side against the New Gods. Did Flint and Thomas have any idea? Was it bluster on Wednesday's part, too—killing Thomas was an act within Wednesday's means, but at the end of it all, could Wednesday actually bring himself to do it?  
  
After all their time together, Shadow still didn't know Wednesday well enough to have an answer.  
  
It was not a comforting thought.  
  
Thomas leaned against the counter, towering over Wednesday. "Why don't you concern yourself with what _I_ would do if something were to happen to James."  
  
"Well, I know you quite well, my boy, as much as you hate the thought of it," Wednesday said. "The good Captain would come back far quicker than you. The common sailors pray for Saint Nicholas' or Saint Elmo's blessings—though Saint Elmo can be a mixed bag, as a lightning strike with poor aim turns your ship into a fiery coffin."  
  
Shadow winced at the mental image.  
  
"But for those in the underbelly of the trade, they wear the mark of Captain Flint's flag upon their skin. They call upon him to whistle up a red sunrise upon their enemies, or for a generous wind to send them on their way. You, dear boy, have considerably less guilt, and infinitely less blood on your hands."  
  
Whilst Thomas may not have spilt much blood, more than enough blood had been spilt in his name, apparently. The blood stains Thomas left on the door handle, the footprints on the sidewalk... did Thomas realize? Did Flint? Shadow wasn't sure he wanted to know.  
  
"You see, a guilty conscience can lead one to do terrible, terrible things. When you've already crossed the line once..." Wednesday made a little walking motion with his index and middle finger, his fingers dancing back and forth across his other hand. "...it's easier to walk over it, again, again and _again_."  
  
Thomas didn't flinch. "I've killed people."  
  
"I know, and for some of it, I was there. We fought for the North, obviously. Well, they fought, I mostly just tagged along," Wednesday said to Shadow. "The spilling of blood binds people together. Thomas' body count is still nothing like our good Captain's, though."  
  
Thomas opened his mouth to protest Wednesday's words, but Flint leaned forward in his chair to catch his fingers on the belt loops of Thomas' pants. He gently pulled Thomas back by his waist, until he was by Flint's side.  
  
Thomas furrowed his brows. "James?"  
  
"Enough," Flint said. "Please."  
  
Shadow wondered if Flint was pleading to Thomas as much as Wednesday. Some of the fight went out of Thomas then, seeing Flint so exhausted. Thomas sighed, and put an arm around Flint, his fingers curling protectively into Flint's shoulder.  
  
The history books spoke and feared Flint, but to Shadow's mind, maybe they should have warned of his loyal lord of a guard dog.  
  
Thomas studied Wednesday, his head cocked to the side. "Why are you so insistent about this?"  
  
Wednesday cleared his throat. "Thomas—"  
  
"What's changed? You're not usually all that concerned about us. The extent of your general involvement is the odd visit, where you eat us out of house and home. This is different." Thomas exhaled slowly. "So _why_ is it different?"  
  
"There is war on the horizon. The situation has changed, is changing as we speak. The stakes are high and deadly, and they are ever rising, like the very tide I would like the good Captain to bring for me."  
  
Thomas stared at Wednesday, his gaze focused. He suddenly huffed in surprise. "You fear them, don't you."  
  
Wednesday frowned. "Fear is healthy. Fear keeps you alive."  
  
"What could you possibly have to fear outside of being forgotten? You're..." Thomas gestured at Wednesday, up and down, a large charismatic giant of a man in a comparatively smaller form. "...you're _you_."  
  
Wednesday grunted. He sat back down on his chair, and clasped his hands. "There are some things in this world that are worth being a little wary of."  
  
When they had been locked in that interrogation room in Indiana, Wednesday had no longer been that confident conman who charmed with every breath he took. Shadow had watched Wednesday's bravado crumble, and just for a moment, he was suddenly a frail older man, frightened of what was coming for them from the dark. The open fear on Wednesday's face had been a shock to Shadow, shredding his nerves even further as the high-pitched screams of the slaughtered policemen surrounded them. The flickering of the lights had almost seemed to time with the thudding of Shadow's pulse.  
  
Then there had been _Her_ , as she floated above the ground, beautiful and beyond comprehension. The ominous thud of footsteps that followed were somehow even worse. Mr. World now knew their faces, both Shadow's and Wednesday's. There were few places they could hide now. Mr. World _knew_ people, he had said. He knew Shadow.  
  
Shadow didn't doubt Mr. World knew Flint and Thomas, too.  
  
"...so they're a definite cause for concern, then," Flint said. He hadn't released Thomas from his grasp.  
  
"They cornered us," Wednesday said. "Slaughtered everyone in the general vicinity. We only just escaped."  
  
"Yeah," Shadow said. "There was a floating Marilyn Monroe, this little techno-hipster shit of a kid, a psychedelic unicorn peddling nuclear weapons, and... _Him_. It was basically a whole new kind of fucked up."  
  
Thomas and Flint both looked at Shadow as if he'd gone entirely mad, which was not helping Shadow's perpetual creeping insecurity and constant fears about his current life status and situation. _Reprogramming reality_. That's what the kid had said. How long had it been reprogrammed? How was Shadow supposed to know the difference?  
  
"...' _Him_ '?" Thomas said.  
  
Wednesday, the usual chatterbox that he was, had seemingly lost his voice, so it was Shadow who answered for him. "Yeah. Mr. World."  
  
Flint leaned against Thomas, stroking his beard as he considered Shadow's words. "He's real?"  
  
"Hell yes he is," Wednesday said, suddenly, "and what a hell of a proposition he could make for you and Saint Thomas over there." Wednesday glared at Thomas. "Mr. World could probably turn Thomas into an actual fucking saint if you both wanted it, Captain, though there is no need, as you already pray at his altar."  
  
"Bit jealous that no one is praying at yours?" Thomas said.  
  
Flint ignored them, still focused on the subject at hand. "Would they consider us a threat? Outside of the incident with the television, there has been nothing before or since."  
  
"What you've got going for you, Captain, is that you're an unknown and intimidating quantity," Wednesday said. "I would assume that they reached out to you not long after our own little intimidating meet and greet. We could have taken a flight to get here much sooner, but that's far too conspicuous. They're in everything. They _see_ everything."  
  
"They were following us for weeks," Shadow said. The security cam stills faxed to the cop in Indiana said as much.  
  
"You'd be a useful asset to them, Captain. You're young, more malleable, and comparatively well known. Captain Flint is a feared man of history and fortune. But you're not free of the mass produced conveyer line of bullshit that _they_ like peddle, either. I'm sure there is another Treasure Island adaptation waiting in the wings," Wednesday said. "Maybe they'll get that Fassbender boy for the next one? He'd make a passable Flint."  
   
Unlike with Miss Piggy and Thomas, Shadow could at least see the similarity there.  
  
"I'm sure the newly hatched godlings could see the benefit of using Thomas to get to you, but whether they will or not, that is truly beyond me," Wednesday said. "Their scruples are lacking, and I say this as man who has very few scruples to be lacking in."  
  
Flint was still holding Thomas tightly in his grasp, as if even the hint of the New Gods would steal Thomas from his side. Thomas hadn't noticed Flint's concern, though, still fascinated by Wednesday.  
  
"I've never seen you scared," Thomas said.  
  
"There's a first for everything," Wednesday said. "And I will say _this_ for the terrifying son of a bitch—at least Mr. World respected me, and showed reverence when it was goddamn due. He doffed his fucking hat and all."  
  
Flint frowned. "They want a war, then?"  
  
"No," Shadow said, dancing his coin across his knuckles. "They want a merger, and _he_ —" Shadow flicked the coin in Wednesday's direction, only just catching it "—wants a war."  
  
Judging by Thomas' abrupt expression of disgust, that may not have been the best way for Shadow to phrase it.  
  
" _Wotan_ —"  
  
Wednesday quickly held up a hand. "Refrain yourself on the lecture until later, Dr. Hamilton, if you're physically able."  
  
Thomas shook his head. "The depths to your hypocrisy are astounding. Everything you said to James—"  
  
"Everything I said to the Captain is _exactly_ why I want him on my side in the first place!"  
  
Shadow wasn't entirely sure that was a compliment. Judging by Flint's grimace, he agreed.  
  
"So," Wednesday said. "Now that the dirty and blood stained laundry has been thoroughly aired, I hope you both would have an understanding as to why I don't want to be concerned about either of you stabbing me in the back when I've got more than enough swords and spears leveraged at my front."  
  
"What exactly do you want from us?" Thomas said. "I'd be of more use in an actual merger."  
  
"A compact. A defense pact. A promise that your swords will stay in their scabbards—which you keep assuring me they will—and that there will be no circumstance where your swords would be joining with theirs." At Thomas' scowl, Wednesday added: "And yes, Thomas, I know you don't own a sword, indulge an old—but handsome—man his metaphor."  
  
"And how would you be wanting to go about this pact?"  
  
"Well, a gentlemen's word is said to be as good as his bond, but I trust you both as far as I can throw you, so I must look to other avenues. I would be amiable to a blood oath, if you were to be so inclined?"  
  
"Absolutely not," Flint said.  
  
" _Now_ you're getting squeamish? I mean, you of all people, Captain."  
  
"There will be no blood oath."  
  
"What about the honey drink? ...the mead?" Shadow said. Even at the thought of it, Shadow could almost taste the cloying sickly sweetness at the back of his throat. "The spit thing, like what we did?"  
  
"That was a carefully planned ritual, my boy, not a ' _spit-thing'_ ," Wednesday said. "I brought rum, the soma is in the car... but I did not think to bring mead."  
  
"If you wanted to make a deal with us, you could have at least brought the mead, you know we wouldn't have any," Flint said. "You've personally gone through enough of our liquor cabinet to know."  
  
"I was hoping for the blood oath, to be honest," Wednesday said. "Well. We'll have to buy some mead."  
  
"You mean _we_ will be the ones buying the mead, because you hate paying for anything," Thomas said.  
  
"That's what I said, we will have to buy some mead."  
  
"I would like to speak to James for a moment." Thomas tapped Flint's shoulder, and then gently pulled away from his side. "If we're going to make a deal with the devil, I'd rather it be discussed first."  
  
"I think Faust may have had it easy." Flint stood up, looking up at Thomas. "The backroom, then?"  
  
"Mmm."  
  
"Don't take too long, gentlemen." Wednesday gave them both a lazy grin. "Shadow and I have places to go, old friends to see."  
  
Thomas paused for a moment, looking back at Wednesday from over his shoulder. "How intolerable for your friends."  
  
Thomas shut the door to the backroom behind him and Flint.

~

The silence in the bookstore was far more peaceful that it had been earlier, the quiet only broken by the cars driving past and Wednesday's humming as he drummed his fingers against his chair. Shadow couldn't even hear any murmuring from Flint and Thomas in the backroom.  
  
Shadow found himself staring at strewn remains of their disastrous lunch—Thomas' abandoned salad, Flint's half-eaten sandwich, and Wednesday's plate still on the floor. The meat and salad sat on the counter. They probably should think about cleaning it up. Shadow rubbed his forehead. The afternoon's ordeal had still been better than meeting Czernobog, and unlike with the Zorya sisters, at least the food had been good.  
  
"Hmm." Wednesday abruptly got up and stretched with a pained grunt. Shadow blinked in surprise as Wednesday unceremoniously began to search behind the bookstore counter.  
  
"What the fuck are you doing?"  
  
"I'm on the hunt for a drinking glass. The eavesdropper's secret weapon."  
  
Shadow stared at him. "Can you just fucking _stop_?"  
  
"Stop? Stop what?"  
  
Shadow spread his arms. " _This_. Everything. C'mon, man, some of the shit you said to them was pretty fucking cruel."  
  
"They're old friends, it's nothing personal." Wednesday ducked his head below the counter. "...there's no chance the Captain doesn't have the occasional alcoholic interlude at work, there must be a glass somewhere..."  
  
"Nothing personal? Really? 'cause the whole thing sounded pretty fucking personal to me."  
  
"If you'd ever seen the Captain at the height of his infamy, you'd realize the way I spoke of him did him a kindness." Wednesday pulled out a sealed packet of blue pens. "Look at them, Shadow. Plastic mass-produced pieces of shit. That's what the New Gods want all of us to be—identical and neatly packaged for consumption."  
  
"And what you said to Thomas?" Shadow said, not willing to let the matter drop.  
  
Wednesday shrugged. "Again, nothing personal."  
  
Wednesday saying it wasn't personal was a lie, because Wednesday, more than anyone Shadow had ever met, knew how to keep it personal. Wednesday had known how Robbie died, and later had Laura's and Robbie's damn obituaries on hand before Shadow even laid eyes on the newspaper. Wednesday had known the exact nature of Laura's death, right down to the unpleasant and awkward details.  
  
Wednesday weaponized 'personal' to a sharp point, and always knew right where to dig in the blade.  
  
"Just... _damnit_ ," Shadow said. "Just stop it with the bullshit, okay? Help me find some plastic bags, or something. You want to get the two of them on side? We should clean this food up."  
  
Wednesday assessed Shadow for a moment, his brows raised. Shadow stared back, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It wasn't one of Wednesday's kinder looks. His gaze was sharp and calculating.  
  
"...as you wish," Wednesday said. He haphazardly tossed the blue pens back under the counter, and pulled out a plastic bag. He started piling the plates into it, without another word.

~

Shadow and Wednesday worked in silence, sealing up the meat, and packing away the salad. Silence with Wednesday was a rare thing for Shadow. If Wednesday wasn't talking, he was reading, eating, humming along to the radio, or asleep. Sleeping frequently led to snoring. That wasn't to say there was never silence between the two of them, it was just when there was, Wednesday exuded quiet contentment, like a cat who'd gotten the cream.  
  
This was a different kind of silence.  
  
Silence of this kind was unnerving.  
  
The paper plate was still on the floor where Wednesday had tossed it. Shadow picked it up, and contemplated spinning it like Wednesday had. If Wednesday could to it, there was no reason why Shadow couldn't. He took a deep breath, and spun the plate. Mustard splattered the floor, covering the polished wood in small yellow droplets.  
  
Shadow blinked." _Fuck_."  
  
"Here," Wednesday said, standing by Shadow's side with napkins in hand. "Heaven forbid we offend our hosts."  
  
Shadow crouched next to the mustard stain. "How the hell did you get the plate to go so fast?"  
  
"Trade secret, my boy."  
  
The silence was broken. Shadow reached up to take the napkins from Wednesday with a sigh.  
  
"They won't invite us back if you make more mess like this," Wednesday said.  
  
"Fuck you." Shadow dabbed the napkin on the floor, smearing the mustard across the hardwood floor. Shit. "If they don't invite us back, it's 'cause you went and pissed them off."  
  
The backroom door opened. Shadow looked up with a jolt, only to see Flint and Thomas peering down at him in confusion.  
  
"Look," Shadow said, "I can explain—"  
  
Thomas waved him off. "It's fine."  
  
From Flint's frown, Shadow wasn't entirely sure it was fine, but Flint didn't push the matter further.  
  
Wednesday rubbed his hands together. "Do you boys at least have a deal for me?"  
  
Flint and Thomas looked at each other.  
  
"We accept your offer," Flint said.  
  
"Good to hear." Wednesday gave them a broad grin. "You won't regret it, Captain."  
  
"...but I won't be doing the pact."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"The deal will be made with Thomas," Flint said. Thomas gave Wednesday a small, and decidedly smug, smile.  
  
Wednesday froze. "Thomas? A deal with _Thomas?_ " _  
  
_ "A deal with Thomas, yes."  
_  
_ "I ask for a sword to protect myself with and you give me _goddamn butter knife_?"  
  
To Thomas' credit, he didn't look all that offended. "A butter knife is better than nothing."  
  
"What the hell are you going to do? Lecture all the gods, new and old, to death?" Wednesday said. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. _Thomas_?"  
  
"I think you'll find that beggars can't be choosers," Flint said.  
  
"Oh, the truth comes out. You want me to beg? Get on my knees and grovel to the dread pirate Flint?" Wednesday said. "Give me five minutes and I'll find you a sacrifice too, though I'd rather it not be Shadow, as I've grown quite fond of the boy."  
  
Shadow rolled his eyes. He grabbed a fresh napkin and rubbed it back and forth across floor.  
  
"No sacrifices are necessary," Thomas said.  
  
"But you will take some groveling? Forgive an old man his ailing knees, you'll have to give me a moment to prepare my genuflect."  
  
Shadow stood up with a wince, the mustard mostly gone. Wednesday's knees were fine. In fact, his knees were probably better that Shadow's.  
  
"All we need is your assurance that _you_ —and your little black book of godly undesirables—will protect us from the New Gods if needed," Thomas said.  
  
Wednesday narrowed his eyes. "And I will require the same."  
  
"No," Flint said. "We won't join them, but we won't be fighting in your war, either."  
  
"I really would prefer you at my side..."  
  
"It's a deal with Thomas—or no deal at all."  
  
"You two will give me gray hair. See?" Wednesday reached up and tugged at one of his dark curls, with only the slightest hint of gray showing through. "I will name them James and Thomas."  
  
Shadow tossed the stained napkins into the garbage bag. "Why just Thomas for the deal?"  
  
It seemed like an odd choice.  
  
...unless Thomas really did have a gun.  
  
"If something were to happen to Thomas... " Wednesday smirked at Flint. " _Well_. Nothing stops the good Captain from enacting his retribution."  
  
Shadow quietly exhaled. Maybe Flint and Thomas weren't as oblivious to Wednesday's plotting as Shadow had assumed.  
  
Flint's mouth curled up at the edges, showing the slightest hint of teeth. "You might like to think of it as an insurance policy."  
  
"Fuck your insurance policy, where's my _life_ insurance policy?" Wednesday said. "And what, dear Captain, stops you from joining with the New Gods, even if Lord Sunshine over there makes a pact with me?"  
  
Flint smiled wider.  
  
"He won't," Thomas said. "We have an understanding."  
  
"An _understanding_?" Wednesday turned to Shadow. "Did you hear that? An understanding! I shall take great comfort in the fact that we have an understanding while the New Gods make merry around my corpse."  
  
"I should hope you can guarantee my safety, then," Thomas said.  
  
Wednesday sighed. "If this goes south—and it _will_ —may it be on your heads. Let it be known that I plan to come back and haunt you both."  
  
"If that's what you like. But first, we should buy some mead." Thomas reached for his coat that had been crumpled near the cash register. He kissed Flint's head on the way past. "James, if you would be so kind as to entertain Mr. Moon."  
  
"Shadow, if _you_ would be so kind as to entertain the good Captain. If you have been sacrificed to New Gods by the time I return, I want you to know that I have been grateful for your tireless service," Wednesday said. "I shall hold your vigil."  
  
"Yeah." Shadow shrugged. "Somehow I think I'll be okay."  
  
"Good luck," Flint said to Thomas, ignoring Wednesday. He gave Thomas a small smile, and received one in return.  
  
Thomas pushed open the bookstore door, and held it open for Wednesday.  
  
"Oh, so this time you're not going to throw me out?" Wednesday said.  
  
"Don't tempt me."  
  
There was a cheery ding, and the door to the bookstore closed behind them.

~

If silence with Wednesday had become ominous, silence with Flint was just, well, plain uncomfortable.  
  
Flint seemed to have no interest in Shadow, preferring to stare at the closed door. The smile that had been so warm for Thomas was long gone. Was Flint hounding himself with the same concerns Shadow had since meeting Wednesday? Shadow wasn't sure that he'd made the right choice with Wednesday, either, but the pay was good, and there had been nothing else for Shadow to come back to.  
  
For Flint it was different, though. Shadow had only put himself on the line making a deal with Wednesday—for Flint, it was Thomas making the deal. Shadow would have been pretty fucking wary if it was Laura doing the same.  
  
Shadow cleared his throat, feeling far more awkward than he would have liked. "Hey, Captain? Sorry about the mustard."  
  
Flint tore his gaze away from the door. "...it's fine."  
  
"Still. Sorry."  
  
Flint ran his fingers through his hair, eyeing Shadow. "Why are you working for Wotan? You seem smart enough to know better. Getting involved with the old man more than skirts the line of danger."  
  
"I was just out of prison. Needed a job," Shadow said. "My best friend died, so I couldn't work at his gym. Wednesday _'made me an offer I couldn't refuse'_." Unlike Thomas, Shadow couldn't get Flint to crack a smile, not even with a very bad Brando impression.  
  
"So you decide to work for _him_?" Flint's voice went up an octave when he was frustrated, Shadow noted. "Get a paper route, a grocery store, be a barista, anything but him."  
  
"How easy is it for someone with a record to get work?" Shadow said. "Let alone four thousand dollars a week? How much of the population _without_ a freakin' record is on four thousand dollars a week?"  
  
"... _four thousand_?" Judging by Flint's frown,  Shadow knew he had Flint cornered. "He's not acquiring that through legal means..."  
  
"It was originally two thousand, but Wednesday doubled it after the lynching."  
  
"You were _lynched_?" Flint's voice actually went up higher that time, Shadow was impressed. "By who? What the _fuck_ —"  
  
"It wasn't as bad as being shanked by Charlie Brown's Christmas Tree, and having one of its branches in my gut. That was some terrifying Alien shit. Did you know trees could do that?" Shadow paused. "Trees aren't _supposed_ to fucking do that."  
  
" _What_?" Flint's voice seemed incapable of going any higher. He leant against the counter, staring at Shadow in shock.  
  
"...and there is a chance that a tall angry Eastern European guy is going to cave my head in with his giant hammer at the end of all of this," Shadow said. "Or maybe I'll just have to play another game of checkers instead, who the fuck knows."  
  
Flint's mouth was still agape. "Wednesday took you to _Czernobog_?"  
  
"You've met?"  
  
"Once," Flint said, frowning. "Wednesday introduced us briefly, early on. The meeting didn't end well." Flint's nostrils flared. "Thomas reminded him of his brother, whatever the fuck that meant."  
  
Yeah, Shadow could see how Thomas and Czernobog would have been a disastrous combination, considering Thomas' fair hair and comparatively sunny disposition.  
  
In retrospect, the last few months really had been a terrible idea. Prison with the Neo-Nazis was almost safer. Shadow reached into his coat and clutched his coin. He hoped Zorya Polunochnaya was telling the truth when she said it was protection.  
  
"Okay, yeah—some pretty fucked up shit has gone down," Shadow said. "But the pay is good."  
  
"...you could work here," Flint said. His words seemed genuine, and yet equally pained at the thought of being genuine. "Thomas has a full enough schedule as it is. The extra help wouldn't go amiss."  
  
Working at a bookstore wasn't an unappealing thought, and both Thomas and Flint seemed on the level for whatever the fuck they were. But, as Shadow's mother had taught him from when he was very young, you always keep your promises. Even something so small as those pinky-promise, cross your heart and hope to die sorta things.  
  
Maybe Shadow could convinced Wednesday to change his terms from mead to pinky-promises.  
  
"I made a deal with Wednesday, and I'm a man of my word. If it goes to shit, I'll come back. I appreciate the offer. Truly," Shadow said. And he did, it had been a long time since someone had offered so much for comparatively so little in return.  
  
"...just... stay away from him, stay away from his bullshit, stay away from this Mr. World." Flint paused. "Please."  
  
Shadow didn't think Flint said please very often, presumably to anyone that wasn't Thomas.  
  
"If Wednesday pisses me off, the contract is annulled."  
  
Flint squinted at him. "The series of untimely events you've survived whilst doing his biding isn't enough to make you even the _slightest_ bit angry?"  
  
"There's a definite line. When he crosses it, I'm gone."  
  
"Wednesday's out for himself. Your wellbeing certainly doesn't enter into it."  
  
"Why the hell did you even let us in, then? Let alone listen to him?"  
  
"I am in his debt, which was probably his grand plan at the time," Flint said, bracing himself on the counter. "He saved Thomas and I not long after we first met, and many years later, he saved Thomas's life again—so for that, I am indebted to him alone."  
  
Wednesday saved Shadow's life not long ago, so Flint wasn't the only one in his debt. Wednesday's voice had been a grounding comfort as that fucking piece of worm-tree squirmed its way through Shadow's guts, with Wednesday's words a hypnotic drone that kept dragging Shadow's focus away from the pain.  
  
"Wednesday said he could stop bleeding, that he knew a charm that could cure sickness and pain," Shadow said, looking uncertainly at Flint. "He said he could turn away the weapons of enemies, and could heal with a touch..."  
  
"His capabilities are certainly... unique. He's a useful and terrifying son of a bitch. But I prefer him as a tenuous ally than an enemy."  
  
"I'm starting to get that," Shadow said. "For now, I just need him to pay me."  
  
"It's your funeral," Flint said. "What a fucking mess."  
  
It was pretty obvious to Shadow that Flint wasn't talking about the garbage bags, nor the mustard stain on the floor that Shadow hadn't been able to remove entirely.  
  
Shadow exhaled. He tossed his coin from one hand to the other—back and forth, back and forth—in frustration. "I mean, this isn't how I pictured my life out of prison. It was gonna be back to boxing at the gym, maybe studying on the side. Something with math."  
  
"You box?" Flint looked up at him in curiosity.  
  
"Yeah. You?"  
  
"Mmm. It's relaxing." Flint tied up the garbage bags with a deft hand. " _Thomas_ , on the other hand... well, Thomas prefers _team sports_." Flint said 'team sports' was like it was an obscenity.  
  
Shadow started to stack the lunch containers. "Thomas seems like a good guy."  
  
"He is," Flint said, his voice abruptly fond and soft.  
  
"Wednesday said you thought he died?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Shadow waited, but Flint didn't elaborate further.  
  
"I'm glad you got him back," Shadow said.  
  
"So am I," Flint said, ducking down behind the counter. He pulled out another roll of paper towels and some anti-bacterial spray, and made a beeline for the mustard stain without another word. Shadow tried to hide his amusement. It was nice to have finally met someone with even less interest in small talk than Shadow himself.

~

It took two hours for Thomas and Wednesday to return, and Shadow frequently checked his watch throughout. He wasn't sure who he was more concerned for, Thomas or Wednesday. Flint ended up pointing out the sporting biographies section to Shadow, recommending some books that Flint had seen Thomas reading.  
  
Shadow soon spotted a familiar old friend sitting on the shelf, and couldn't help but grin. " _Goddamn_. Schwarzenegger wrote an autobiography? His bodybuilding book is a modern classic."  
  
At the mention of Schwarzenegger, Flint looked at Shadow as if he'd just walked dog shit through Flint's very clean and now mustard-free bookstore. "...fine. Take it. If you want."  
  
Shadow's severely dog-eared copy of _The New Encyclopedia of Modern Bodybuilding_ once had a permanent place on Shadow's bedside table. He hadn't been able to find it when he was packing up the house. Maybe Robbie had borrowed it, or Laura had thrown it out. He wasn't about to ask Audrey to check through her house in regards to the former.  
  
Flint had left Shadow to his own devices with a half-way companionable pat on the back, which Shadow assumed passed for vague affection in Captain Flint speak. Shadow browsed the books for awhile, and then settled into one of the comfy chairs not far from the counter, sinking into it with a pleased sigh. Sitting in a bookstore in the middle of Boston felt surprisingly mundane and normal, even if the bookstore was owned by a three hundred year old pirate. Normal wasn't something Shadow had felt since he'd been to prison. Since before Laura, since before... all of this. Prison had routine, sure, but it had never been _normal_.  
  
Flint rung Thomas after an hour to make sure he and Wednesday hadn't killed each other. Judging from the sheer volume of Thomas' voice down the phone, Thomas was certainly considering it.  
  
Flint massaged his temples, looking to Shadow. "If Wotan wants expensive shot glasses, just get them. We'll regift them later."  
  
Shadow slunk lower into the chair, trying to make himself invisible. Not easy to do when you're six feet tall, but he tried anyway.

~

Upon Thomas and Wednesday's return, Shadow didn't bother to get up to greet them. He wasn't sacrificing quality Schwarzenegger time if he could help it.  
  
Shadow heard Flint clear his throat. "How did it go?"  
  
Curiosity got the better of Shadow, and he shuffled the chair over, so that he could get a better look at the doorway. He leaned to the side, and winced at what he saw. Thomas' tie was loosened, his hair sticking out a different angles. Wednesday, with a smug smile, looked exactly the same as when they had left. Shadow considered the prospect that maybe Wednesday had finally— _finally_ —broken Thomas.  
  
"The afternoon was..." Thomas paused. "...unpleasant."  
  
"I owe you." Flint gave Thomas a quick kiss, causing Thomas' frown to soften in turn, but only just a little.  
  
"It was perfectly pleasant, stop being such a baby, Thomas. He's playing it up to get goodie points from you, Captain, don't fall for his cheap and sultry manipulations," Wednesday said, pushing past Thomas and Flint. He spotted Shadow peeking out from behind the bookshelves, and waved him over. Shadow held up the Schwarzenegger autobiography in response. Wednesday gestured again, this time with more urgency.  
  
Shadow stood up with a sigh, and put down his book. Schwarzenegger would have to wait.  
  
"You should know that we went to three different stores looking for the perfect shotglasses," Thomas said to Flint. "At one point Wotan pretended—very loudly—to be going senile so he could get a discount."  
  
"The con would have worked, if you didn't have to be so self-indulgently honest," Wednesday said.  
  
"He _then_ —" Thomas' voice got louder, angrily enunciating every word "—pretended I was his money-grubbing son, who was forcing him back to a nursing home against his will in order to take over his estate."  
  
"In all fairness, I did drop the act before they called the police. It was a bad con to begin with, considering we don't look enough alike... outside of our handsome blue eyes, of course. I will say my attempt at an English accent was flawless, as usual."  
  
"It was passable," Thomas said. He loosened his tie further, and pulled it off with a sigh. He balled it up in his hands, and tossed it haphazardly behind the store's counter. Flint rubbed Thomas' back with a sympathetic frown on his face.  
  
Shadow stared at the price tag as Wednesday began to unpack the shotglasses. "Did you go for the most expensive shot glasses between all the stores, or something? _What the hell_..."  
  
"Well, I did try for a discount, before Doctor Goody-Two-Shoes Hamilton offered to pay full price," Wednesday said. "More importantly, this is a very significant and profound moment in the working relationship between Thomas and I. I've known these boys for a few centuries now, and for that, I thought it required something a little extra special."  
  
"If it was so special," Thomas said, "you could have offered to pay for all of it."  
  
Flint stared at the shotglasses in wonderment. "They're disgusting."  
  
Thomas nodded. "I'll donate them to the department's Christmas raffle."  
  
"You won't keep them in memory of this glorious moment?" Wednesday said.  
  
Thomas crossed his arms. "No."  
  
"God no," Flint said.

~

After the shotglasses were set out and the mead uncorked, the counter was once again the metaphorical line in the sand, with Wednesday on one side, Flint and Thomas on the other. Shadow stayed off to the side. He was far enough away that he wasn't _exactly_ involved, but close enough that he could be a very, very reluctant mediator if needed. Flint, on the other hand, stood as close to Thomas as he possibly could, doing a terrible job of hiding his concern as he watched Thomas out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Your terms, Lord Hamilton?" Wednesday said, as he began to pour out the mead.  
  
"We have no interest in fighting for _them_ , we will not get involved in your war. If they come looking for us, we will have your protection," Thomas said.  
  
"Is that all?"  
  
"You will stop sporadically showing up and eating our food. You will also keep your birds away from my car."  
  
"Your wish is my command," Wednesday said, as he finished pouring the mead. "As for you, you will not be making deals with any of them. If they come looking, you will look the other way. If they call, you will hang up. If they give you cause for concern, you will do what needs to be done." Wednesday looked Flint up and down. "And you'll be on your best behavior?"  
  
"When am I not?" Flint said.  
  
Wednesday muttered something under his breath that sounded more expletive laden than anything Shadow had heard in his three years in prison. It was quite creative, even by Wednesday's standards.  
  
Wednesday put the bottle down on the counter with a loud thud. "Thomas. Shall we?"  
  
Thomas nodded, picking up a shotglass.  
  
Wednesday lifted up his glass in a toast. "' _I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul'_."  
  
"Don't quote Henley at me," Thomas said.  
  
"...but he's my favorite." Wednesday offered his glass and quirked his mouth. Thomas stared at him for a moment, and sighed, knocking their shotglasses together. Thomas downed the mead in one go. Wednesday watched him drink in silence, before following suit.  
  
The second glass of mead went down just as cleanly, but the third had Thomas balking. He lifted the shotglass to his lips, and then hesitated.  
  
"Prison hooch. It tastes likes prison hooch," Shadow said, sympathetic to Thomas' pain.  
  
"What an appetizing thought," Thomas said, dryly, but he drank the mead with no further complaint.  
  
Wednesday smiled. "All we have left is a gentlemanly handshake to seal the deal."  
  
Wednesday spat onto his palm with great gusto, with a handwave like a magician concealing a trick. Thomas spat neatly, managing to do so with surprisingly dignity. The handshake between the two men was efficient.  
  
Thomas stared at his hands when the deed was done. "I don't feel different."  
  
"It doesn't really work like that, my boy," Wednesday said, taking a napkin, and patting down his palm. "My thanks, gentlemen. This pact has put my mind at ease—well, somewhat." Wednesday eyed Flint with a frown. "Though through far duller means than I had previously anticipated."  
  
Shadow shrugged. "Less messy, though."  
  
"And a helluva lot more boring."  
  
"But no blood needed."  
  
"Spoilsport." Wednesday watched Flint take Thomas' hand. "None of you have taste for drama—and my god did you used to, Captain."  
  
"I've changed," Flint said, roughly dragging a napkin back and forth across Thomas' palm. He was like Lady Macbeth, but relentlessly scrubbing off any hint of Wednesday's spit on Thomas' skin instead of blood. Thomas winced, though he didn't pull his hand away.  
  
"Sorry." Flint gently squeezed Thomas' hand between both of his own.  
  
There was a hint of a smirk curling at the edges of Wednesday's lips, but with Thomas and Flint both distracted, neither had noticed Wednesday's satisfaction. Shadow stuck his hand in his pocket, and squeezed his coin, trying to shake off nerves.  
  
It seemed like Wednesday may have been telling the truth when they had first met—Wednesday did always get what he wanted.  
  
"Shouldn't you be getting ready to leave, Wotan?" Thomas said, not looking away from Flint.  
  
"It's peak hour traffic," Wednesday said. "I thought we'd stay until after dinner, considering lunch went so well."  
  
Flint closed his eyes. "That's certainly one way of looking at it."  
  
"What do you boys feel like? Chinese? Pizza? Vietnamese? Japanese? Fish and chips? It's my treat."  
  
Flint squeezed Thomas' hand again, and let go. "Which means we'll be paying for it."  
  
Shadow groaned to himself. Until _after dinner_? It had been a miracle they'd staved off bloodshed for the afternoon. He spied the mead on the counter.  
  
Shadow would definitely need some liquid courage to get through this.  
  
"Fuck it," Shadow said, grabbing the mead. He took a deep breath, and downed a large gulp of it in one go.  
  
Thomas reached for his arm. "Shadow, what are you—"  
  
It still tasted like prison hooch, but it might get Shadow drunk enough to survive until after dinner. Wednesday was the reason they were in this mess, so fuck him, he could be the designated driver for once.  
  
On the bright side, whatever happened, it would still be better than checkers and death threats.

* * *

**LAURA MOON**

"This would be the longest." _Slam._ "Mother." _Slam._ "Fuckin'." _Slam_. "Detour." _Slam._ "That—"  
  
"—yeah, yeah, that you've ever taken in your life, I know, I know. You and me both, Carrot Top," Laura said, looking down her nose at Sweeney. "If you break that steering wheel, where do you think we'll find another one, hmm? Do they grown on leprechaun trees? Do you have dozens of them stored in your jacket like your little lucky charm coins?"  
  
Sweeney flipped her off with a grumble, fumbling for his packet of cigarettes. He lit one, inhaling it with a long and contented groan. He slumped back in his seat, nursing the cigarette like it was a precious gem.  
  
"Hey, jackass, at least you can smoke for endorphins. I just have to slowly rot and suffer."  
  
"I'm well aware of that fact, dead wife. You smell like a fresh bouquet of rotting meat."  
   
"I'm already wearing layers of deodorant and cheap perfume, okay? I'm trying. I'm single-handedly keeping the Kardashian perfume brand in business. My sacrifice at the altar of the Kardashian Empire is my gift you."  
   
Sweeney snorted, dramatically holding his nose in response as if he could somehow keep out the permeating smell.  
   
They had been following the trail of Shadow and Wednesday for weeks. Much to their confusion, the pulsating beacon of Shadow's light continued further and further east, until they found themselves in Boston—in front of a fucking _bookstore_ of all things. Shadow liked books, sure, but not enough to drive all the way to Boston. Shadow and Wednesday hadn't even stayed long enough for Laura and Sweeney to catch up.  
  
Laura could still see the light—she could see _Shadow's_ light—throbbing over the horizon. It was almost like a heartbeat. So close yet so fucking far.  
   
Cigarette still in hand, Sweeney titled his head further out the window of the ice cream truck, sniffing the air. "Wednesday was here. The atmosphere still feels electrified."  
   
Laura wrinkled her nose, recoiling back in disgust. "Wait, you can _smell_ Wednesday? Have you been sniffing your way through Boston? Was that why you had your head out the window the whole time? What the _f_ —"  
   
Sweeney waved his hand at her, shaking his head. "An electrical burn, dead wife. The smell is like an electrical burn."  
   
Laura was starting to think it was a good thing she hadn't inherited any other superhuman senses outside of strength.  
  
"Put some damn sunglasses on before we go in," Sweeney said. "Your eyes are deader than dead." He nudged her shoulder. Laura opened her mouth to argue back, but she knew that he did kind of have a point.  
  
"Fine," Laura said, shoving Sweeney to the side as she dug into the glove box to fish the sunglasses out. Sweeney pushed open the door of the ice cream truck, and stepped out into the sunlight with a groan of contentment. Laura winced at the audible crunch from somewhere in his spine as he stretched. _Ew._  
   
Sweeney looked around. "They were here. Dunno why they'd be botherin', though."  
   
Laura followed him out onto the street, slamming the truck door behind her. As she straightened up, she felt a tug from her chest. Ah, _fuck_. Just her luck, the loose skin from her incision was peeling open again. So much for the luck of the Irish—or in her case, being in proximity of the Irish.  
  
Laura zipped her coat up higher, glancing up at the bookstore they had parked in front of. " _The Walrus_? Huh. That's almost cute."  
  
"Don't see a walrus," Sweeney said. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with his foot.  
   
Feeling cautious, Laura slowly pushed open the front door of the bookstore. The perky ding from the bell as the door opened was pleasant enough. "It's nice. Quaint."  
  
"That's certainly one word for it."  
  
"Is Wednesday the type to go after rare books?"  
   
"Not sayin' he ain't, but all the way to Boston? It's a touch of the eccentric even by Grimnir's standards. S'funny, there's somethin'... _somethin'_ about a bookstore, but I don't..."  
   
Books had always been more Shadow's thing than Laura's, but she'd grown relatively fond of reading through him. If she couldn't sleep, he would sometimes read to her, curled around her in bed. If the book wasn't too heavy, he'd hold the book in one hand, and stroke her hair in the other.  
   
Laura grimaced. You don't know what you've got 'till it's gone, right?  
   
The aisles were high, and the books were shelved impeccably. Bookstores always had a smell. Libraries were kinda similar, the books just smelt a bit older, a bit more stale. Not that Laura's smell was much to speak of these days, but she could still get a hint of that new book smell.  
  
Sweeney, the irritating prick, was still muttering behind Laura. She'd gotten pretty good at tuning him out for the most part, but his voice was really was grating.  
  
"Is this...? Grimnir wouldn't..." Sweeney came to a halt beside her. "Would you just fuckin' _wait,_ dead wife—"  
   
"Man, I'd love a good thriller. Something to get the blood pumping, you know?" Laura looked around, trying to figure out where to begin. Romance? Eh. Classics? Eh. Science-Fiction? Fantasy? Double-eh. She wasn't a geek, though admittedly somewhere along the line her life had become something out of a B-grade fantasy novel.  
  
If Orlando Bloom elves actually existed, she was going to punch something.  
   
"...shite. _Shite_. Walrus _._ I'm a whole new class of fuckin' idiot." Sweeney tugged at Laura's arm.  
   
"Can you _not_? What is your goddamn problem?" Laura turned to face him, only for Sweeney to abruptly cover her mouth. She stared at him in surprise, and would have bitten through his hand in retaliation if he didn't look so petrified. Sweeney brought his finger up to his lips and made a shhh-ing motion.  
   
"Don't think of makin' a sound, and maybe, _just fucking maybe_ , we won't be meetin' Death today," Sweeney whispered. His eyes flicked erratically from side to side, as if something would slither out from between the bookcases or leap forth from the shadows. Laura, who had already technically met Death, began to feel nervous despite herself. She imagined if her heart could still beat, it would be thudding in her chest.  
   
"Alright, jesus. We'll leave, okay?" Laura's voice was muffled behind Sweeney's hand.  
   
"Yes, good. Very good. We'll leave right now, and we'll—oh, _fuck_."  
   
There was a man standing behind them. He was broad and auburn haired. Handsome enough, Laura supposed.  The man was taking them both in with an impressively raised eyebrow.  
   
"Hey, dead wife?" Sweeney said. He was otherwise frozen.  
   
"Yeah?" Laura thought she sounded more feeble than she would have liked.  
   
"Don't. Move. A. Goddamn. Muscle."  
   
"This isn't Jurassic fucking Park, I think he can still see us even if we don't move."  
   
The man cleared his throat. Ah, well, if Laura was going to die—again—at the hands of some random asshole, he might as well be hot.  
   
"Can I help you?" the man said.  
  
Oh, he was English. They were really fucked, then, as villains in movies were always played by Englishmen. There was like, a law in England, or something.  
   
"No, sir. No. Not at all. Our sincerest of apologies for stumbling upon your fine, ah..." Sweeney looked from side to side. He hesitated for a moment, mouth agape, and before gesturing emphatically to the bookshelves. "... _establishment_."  
  
The man was staring at them. He was so goddamn still that he could have almost been a statue. It was pretty fucking unnerving even by Laura's standards, and again, she'd had a stint in the afterlife.  
  
"Look," Sweeney said. "Not sayin' I'm proud of it, but I'm not above a round of begging, if that's what gets you off. There's no cause to be killin' us."  
  
"I have no intention of killing either of you." The man battered away one of Laura's flies that had gotten too close. "Imagine the mess."  
   
"Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit," Sweeney said. "Shit-shit-shit- _shit—_ "  
   
Since Sweeney was useless, Laura realized she'd have to take the situation into her own hands, possibly quite literally. She pushed Sweeney behind her—he'd brought her this far, she guessed she kinda owed him—and brought up her fists defensively. The Englishman didn't so much as blink.  
  
"I'm super strong, Strawberry Shortcake," Laura said, "and I'm not going down without a fight."  
   
"Don't threaten him, for fuck's sake. Don't call him stupid fucking names," Sweeney said. "He might slowly keelhaul us on land, with just the power of his mind. My sincerest apologies sir, she's daft in the head. Didn't mean it."  
   
"Fuck _yeah_ I meant it," Laura said, raising her voice. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"  
  
She desperately hoped she sounded far more braver than she felt.  
   
"He's _Flint_ ," Sweeney said. He was no doubt doing a terrible job of hiding over her shoulder with his towering height.  
   
"Flint?"  
   
"Captain. Freakin'. _Flint_."  
   
Laura looked from the man, to Sweeney, back to the man. It was hard not to feel a little confused. "Wait. The pirate? Like, the Treasure Island pirate?"  
  
She'd known the broad strokes about Flint from historical hearsay, alongside a documentary on the History Channel she'd once watched while she was high. Pirates had always seemed cool enough, fuck the rules, and all that. Anne Bonny always seemed like a life goal.  
   
...this 'Flint' didn't really look like a pirate, though. He needed an eye patch and a coat, at least. Maybe a parrot to complete the look.  
   
Sweeney tightly gripped Laura's shoulders. " _Yes_ , the goddadamn pirate. Captain Flint, the historical figure, who was written into a popular children's book, yes-yes- _yes_."  
   
"Captain Flint—the historical figure—who was indeed written into a popular children's book, who genuinely isn't looking to kill either of you, and who was honestly inquiring if either of you needed a hand in browsing today," Flint said. "Was that the Captain Flint you meant?"  
   
"Ah, yessir, yes," Sweeney said.  
   
They were at an impasse.  
   
"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" Laura said. "Wasn't that the entire point of that freakin' book? Flint's dead, let's go get his treasure, yo-ho-ho, where's me fuckin' rum?" Not that Laura had read _Treasure Island_ , but she'd seen _Muppet Treasure Island_. That was close enough. Flint didn't need to know the specifics.  
   
"Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated. As was yours, it would seem," Flint said, looking at Laura a little pointedly.  
  
Laura knocked away one of her flies with a frown. "Look, I don't care who the fuck you are, I can take you either way."  
  
"He can cut you in half with the merest flick of his sword, dead wife. Good luck at being sewn back together when your foul-mouthed fucking head is separated from your fuckin' feet." Sweeney tightened his grip on Laura's shoulders.  
  
" _My_ foul-mouthed head?"  
  
Flint looked between the two of them."How did you hear about any of this?"  
  
"Rumors. Been goin' around the last century or two," Sweeney said. "A man named Grim—, ah, _Mr. Wednesday_ , specifically also gave one or two warnings."  
  
Flint pinched the bridge of his nose. "So Wotan was involved. What else did these rumors say?"  
  
"That you can summon storms on a whim, and that the sea is at your command. That you are unmatched in a fight, and your sword moves quicker than the human eye can see. That you are so relentless, so blood-thirsty, and so unstoppable, that hell itself spat you back out." **  
**  
"That last part is from Pirates of the Caribbean," Laura said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Pirates of the Caribbean. You know, Disney."  
  
" _What_?" Sweeney dropped his hands from Laura's shoulders. "...fuck."  
  
"Wotan may have embellished my capabilities more than a little." Flint's lips twitched, as he unsuccessfully tried not to smile. "Whilst taking some inspiration from some more... _unusual_ sources."  
  
"You should thank Wednesday," Laura said. "He gave you some hardcore street cred. I've never seen this one so scared." She nudged Sweeney in the stomach.  
  
"I'll be sure to do that," Flint said, dryly.  
  
"So, what—none of it is true?"  
  
"I cannot keelhaul you with the power of my mind, no."  
  
"And the rest?" Laura said.  
  
Flint shrugged. He didn't answer.  
  
Laura honestly would have preferred something a bit more reassuring.  
  
"Neither of you are here for the books, then?" Flint said.  
  
"There's a man with Wednesday," Laura said. "We've been trying to find them both. It seems like they visited here."  
   
"Do you mean Mr. Moon?"  
   
"You saw Shadow?" Laura said, before she could stop herself. She hated how hopeful she sounded. _Idiot_. She'd be swooning next.  
  
"They briefly visited here. Whilst my husband initially threw him and Wednesday out of the bookstore, we did eat lunch and dinner together," Flint said. "Both meals were... relatively cordial."  
  
Judging by the grimace, Laura was sure he was lying.  
   
"Well, that's... fortunate," Sweeney said. "We promise no trouble, no trouble at all. We're absolutely nothin' like Wednesday."  
   
"I know, which is exactly why I haven't thrown you out myself."   
   
Sweeney exhaled in relief. He automatically went fumbling for his cigarettes, before realizing that now wasn't the most opportune moment. Laura had to nudge him to stop him fidgeting.  
  
"Wotan and Shadow Moon are long gone. In truth, I don't know if there's much I can do for a dead woman, and a..." Flint looked Sweeney up and down. "...my apologies. I truly have no idea what the fuck you are."  
  
"Leprechaun. I would be a leprechaun, Mr. Flint. See?" Sweeney leaned over Laura's shoulder, showing Flint the small pile of gold that had just appeared in his palms.  
   
"Hmm." Flint walked closer to them, fascinated. Flint picked up one of Sweeney's coins, and to Sweeney's credit, his hands only shook slightly.  
   
Flint rolled the coin from side to side in his fingers. "If I capture you, will you give me three wishes in exchange for your freedom?"  
   
"It don't work that way, Mr. Flint. Lord, how I wish it did."  
   
Laura mournfully watched the gold disappear out of the corner of her eye as Sweeney closed his hands. It was a pity that they could never really buy anything with them, as no one ever knew what to do when a gold coin was handed to them. They'd traded in the odd gold coin at a pawn shop to afford gas, and Laura would watch as the cashier's eyes grew wide when Sweeney presented the coin.  
   
Flint seemed amused. "So there's no pot of gold?"  
   
"No pot of gold."  
   
Flint rubbed his thumb back and forth on the coin's indented surface. "It appears you're a bit of a disappointment, then, for a leprechaun."  
   
"...I was a king once, before I was this." Sweeney's voice was reluctant, quiet.  
  
Laura still didn't know what to make of Sweeney's possible royal origins. She'd say he was full of shit, but she was the undead, who was she to judge? Sweeney had also said that he'd been a bird at some point, so that was something they still really hadn't discussed. When Ginger Minge wore out as a nickname, she was probably going to change it to Big Bird. Laura could at least respect that for what Sweeney apparently feared of Flint, he still had some pride. That was mildly admirable.  
  
She was still going to call him Big Bird, though.  
   
For Flint's part, he abruptly looked up at Sweeney's mention of kingship, his good humor gone. Flint stared at Sweeney wordlessly for a moment. "My apologies, Mister...?"  
   
"Sweeney. Some call me Mad Sweeney, but Sweeney does me fine." Sweeney had stopped cowering behind Laura. She assumed it was because Flint appeared to be relatively sincere in tone and temperament. Laura found herself relaxing, too, changing her perspective from 'shady English villain' to just 'generally intimidating Englishman', which she thought was an improvement.  
   
"If we are to continue this conversation, I would prefer we weren't interrupted." Flint handed back Sweeney his coin, batting away another one of Laura's flies as he turned away from them.  
   
Laura narrowed her eyes at Sweeney, with his unkempt beard and disgusting haircut. "I still don't see you as a king."  
   
"Why don't I seem like a king?" Sweeney said. "He was a king, of a sort. For a time. Does he seem like a king?"  
   
Laura tilted her head to the side, observing Flint as he locked the bookstore door, turning the welcome sign from 'OPEN' to 'CLOSED'. "He's a bit more regal than you, yeah."  
   
Sweeney gave her a withering look. "You'd make a good court jester, dead wife. Stop looking at his arse."  
   
She shrugged. Dead or not, she was still human.

~

Flint ended up offering them some cushy reading chairs to sit on. Laura sagged back into the chair with a contented sigh, and Sweeney sunk into his with an equally happy groan. The ice cream truck hadn't been doing their backs any favors, though Laura didn't think anyone would offer the undead any chiropractic adjustments.  
   
Flint assessed them both with a frown. In response, Laura straightened her back a little, and Sweeney quickly pulled himself upright.  
   
"To reiterate—you're looking for Wotan, and you happened upon my bookstore," Flint said.  
   
Sweeney nodded. "We had no way of knowin' it was your bookstore, Mr. Flint. Sir."  
  
"'Wotan'?" Laura said. "How many names has this son of a bitch got, anyway?"  
  
"Enough," Flint said. "More than enough."  
   
"Well, then, _Captain_ —" Laura was on her best behavior in case he really could keelhaul them with his mind, whatever the fuck keelhauling was "—we were looking for Shadow, and we've been following his trail. That trail led us to you."  
   
"Wednesday prefers to make it difficult for anyone he doesn't want to follow him," Flint said, stroking his beard, his gaze a lot sharper than Laura would have liked. Maybe he really would keelhaul them.  
  
"It's easier when you've got your own personal beacon," Laura said.  
  
Flint's brows furrowed. "Elaborate."  
  
"It's a convoluted tale, with lots of tragedy and drama, but here it is—just for you—considerably shortened." Laura held up a hand, and cleared her throat. "See, I died. That fucking _sucked_ , by the way. Sweeney and Shadow crossed paths via Wednesday. Sweeney accidentally gave Shadow his lucky coin, or Shadow took the coin, I'm not sure, they were both drunk—"  
   
"Biggest mistake of my life, and I've made more than a few," Sweeney said, under his breath.  
   
"—and then Shadow left it on my grave as a token. The coin brought me back. Somehow. We don't fucking know. So, now the coin keeps me going, and _he_ ," Laura said, pointing to Sweeney, "won't leave me the fuck alone until I give him his coin back."  
   
"It's lucky, dead wife. I need it, and you know it." Sweeney punctuated his words with a slight bang of his hand on the chair's armrest.  
   
"But that's not happening, because I'll go back to being a corpse. The non-animated kind. Which I would prefer not to do. So he's taking me to someone who can bring me back to life, or whatever, and then I can give him the coin back."  
   
Flint was still guarded, staring at them both.  
   
"And, for whatever reason, I can see Shadow. He emits this light. _Pure_ light." Laura leaned forward, and stared at her hands. They were a motley gray. "It's a beacon, so, I just follow Shadow's light."  
   
Sweeney snorted at the sentiment. "The dead do go into the light, and all. Except for you, more's the pity."  
   
Laura spun to face him. If he wasn't just out of reach, Laura would have hit him.  
   
Flint, however, nodded in acknowledgment. "Your story is impressive, though leaning more towards the unusual than I was expecting."  
   
"That I don't doubt," Laura said, kicking her legs out from under her chair slightly.  They looked at each other.  
  
The silence was awkward.  
   
Sweeney swallowed, a bit louder than what was appropriate. "Did Grimnir come to recruit you for his war, Mr. Flint?"  
   
Flint roughly exhaled, bracing his back against the counter. "Yes. He was concerned that I would see the propositions from the newer gods more appealing than those from him, and that there would be a loss of loyalty on my part. We came to an accord."  
  
"Ah. The miserable old bastard got you, too?" Sweeney said.  
  
"Yes—and no. There are benefits for both parties."  
  
"You're not headin' to Wisconsin, then?"  
  
"No. We have no interest in being pawns in Wotan's war," Flint said. "I also had my concerns about how many souvenirs my husband would bring back from the House on the Rock if we were to go." **  
**  
Laura could speak from experience—souvenir junkies were the absolute fucking worst. She'd seen all kinds of kitchy collectible Egyptian junk from when she worked at the 26th Dynasty Casino. It was hilarious to see the plastic junk they would spend their money on—well, what money they had left over after gambling. Did there need to be Anubis toilet paper holders? No. No, there did not. Considering that Laura had now given a cheery _fuck_ _you_ to a man who was possibly Anubis himself, and received a ten minute undead makeover in response, it seemed like the toilet paper holders were an even worse idea than they had been to begin with.  
  
Sweeney leaned forward, clasping his hands. "Your, _ah_ , husband is also one of us, then? From what's been said of you, Mr. Flint, you don't work alone."  
  
"Is that so?" Flint stood up straighter, suddenly keenly focused on Sweeney. "And what _exactly_ has been said?"  
  
"That is... well..." Sweeney licked his lips. "It is said that you are protected by a saint. A saint that gives you his blessings before you go to battle."  
  
" _A saint_?" Flint said, his eyes widening. He stared blankly at them for a moment. "...would that be a Saint Thomas, by any chance?"  
  
"Ah, yessir."  
  
"Of all the..." Flint shook his head, and sagged against the counter with a huff of amusement. "I'm sorry to inform you, Mr. Sweeney, but Wotan has been indulging himself with tall tales. Thomas is many things, but an actual saint is not one of them. Being very much alive, he can't exactly be canonized, for one."  
  
"Well," Sweeney said, with a shaky laugh. "That's a damn fine thing, too. Dealing with a saint can be a nasty fuckin' business."  
  
"Really?" Laura said. "Sunday school taught me otherwise. You pray—they bless. It seems straightforward enough to me."  
   
"You haven't met a saint the likes of which I have, dead wife. Calling him a vindictive fuck would be puttin' it mildly."  
  
"Well, Thomas is no saint, nor the vindictive kind," Flint said. "If you want to confront Wotan, he won't be returning this way any time soon. He and Mr. Moon are heading to Wisconsin—though Wotan is planning to make one or two stops on the way. He didn't mention who, and I didn't care to inquire further."  
   
"I can think of a few types he could try and recruit, just don't know who would be next on the list," Sweeney said. "With all due respect, Mr. Flint, it was a helluva detour to come see you."  
  
"Well, _Mr. Wednesday_ wanted to make sure we were on his side, no matter what the circumstances."  
   
"And you'd be loyal to him?" Sweeney said.  
   
"Mostly. Better the devil you know..."  
   
"... _ah_. He'd be quite the devil. We've got a stop of our own before the Rock, but we're headin' there after that."  
   
"Good luck, I suppose. I'd stay out of it if I was you." After a moment, Flint let out a long and frustrated sigh. "I need a cigarette."  
   
Sweeney's face lit up.

~

Laura found herself on the footpath outside _The Walrus_ between two tall bearded redheads, all three of them smoking. If she was honest with herself, Laura wasn't getting a lot of enjoyment out of it, but she thought if she inhaled enough smoke she might get some boost of endorphins. She was also pretty sure they were just a Dalmatian and a fire hydrant away from posing for an obscure punk rock vinyl cover. Considering the fact that Laura was accompanied by two tall redheads with beards, the album would probably be less punk rock, and something a bit more hipster.  
  
They'd be called _Captain Redbeard and The Ginger Minge_.  
  
Flint roughly exhaled some smoke out through his nose, letting his head fall back against the bookstore window with a thud. He smirked a little to himself, still clutching the cigarette. "Every time I think I have an understanding of the world—with Wotan, with the gods both new and old—there's always something unexpected on the horizon."  
   
"It's pretty fucked, yeah," Laura said. "You should see the absolute shitshow my life has become since dying. I didn't know there _was_ something after dying."  
  
"It must be said that you are certainly very unique, Mrs. Moon," Flint said. He gave her a lopsided grin. It was a good thing Laura was dead. She genuinely might have blushed.  
  
Sweeney gazed woefully down at this cigarette. "It should be said that there are things that are _supposed_ to happen after a person dies, and rising from the fuckin' grave with my lucky coin certainly ain't one of them."  
  
"Tough shit," Laura said. "You snooze, you lose."  
  
Sweeney gave her the middle finger.   
  
"How many are going to Wisconsin?" Flint said.  
  
"Dunno." Sweeney shrugged. "Enough. Don't know 'em all."  
  
"You'll be fighting in Wotan's war?"  
  
"Aye. I owe a battle."  
  
Flint laughed, low and bitter. "Now _that_ I can relate to."  
  
"To bad decisions, then." Sweeney raised his cigarette, as if in a toast. Flint genuinely grinned at that, and he lifted up his own cigarette in agreement. He looked younger when he smiled properly. It suited him. Laura would have to change her assessment of him from 'generally intimidating Englishman' to 'really quite attractive Englishman'.  
  
"And why is a former Irish king on American soil?" Flint said. "I can understand why Wotan's here, I have a cursory knowledge of why some of the others are here, but a leprechaun? My grandfather told me a few tales in jest, but I didn't know the tales carried, let alone all the way to the Americas."  
   
"I was brought by a young maid on a prison ship, 'bout three hundred years ago. She was bound for indentured servitude in the Carolinas. She passed me on to her children, and her children's children." Sweeney glanced at Laura quickly, though she wasn't sure why. "She brought me to the new world, kept me close 'til she passed. I'll always be grateful. There were others, of course, but she was the first."  
  
"We've been traveling together for ages, and you hadn't told me that." An abrupt gust of wind lifted Laura's hair. She huffed in frustration, pushing it back over her shoulder. "Aren't we closer than that? Here I thought we were close."  
   
"Not that close." Sweeney wouldn't look at her.  
  
Laura frowned. He knew all the gory details about her life—quite fucking literally—but she knew so little about him. Quite frankly, she still didn't have much to go on outside the fact he was a) a leprechaun, b) a drunk, and c) may have been an actual bird at some point.  
  
"This woman... her belief brought you here?" Flint said, assessing Sweeney over Laura's head. "She sustained you?"  
   
"Yeah. She was dedicated like nothin' I'd ever seen. Well, mostly dedicated." Sweeney gave a rueful grin. "We all fall off the wagon sometimes, there'll be no judgment from me, mind."  
   
Flint nodded to himself. He flicked some of the ash from his cigarette onto the ground, his jaw twitching slightly. The ash from Flint's cigarette caught on the breeze. Laura wrinkled her nose. The breeze didn't smell right. It was pungent. Heavy with salt. God, how many years was it now since she'd last been to the sea?  
  
"Mr. Flint?" Sweeney said.  
  
Flint stared at the road, and didn't reply.  
  
"Hey," Laura said, turning to Flint in concern. The wind picked up, sending loose paper and debris scattering across the sidewalk. A gust of wind sent Laura's curls tumbling into her face. " _Hey._ Captain?"  
  
Flint took a sharp breath. He looked up at the sky.  
   
"Thomas—my Thomas—was brought to America in chains, a decade or two before Sweeney's young maid arrived. Before that, he was kept in a madhouse for a time—to silence his voice, to let him be forgotten by the world."  
  
Laura held back her hair with one hand, and grasped her cigarette with the other. "Captain..."  
  
"Thomas saw the good in people where others could not. Even when they couldn't see it in themselves. God help him, he still manages to," Flint said. "In the end, Thomas' only crime was the relentless pursuit of a better world. A concept that is heinous beyond compare, apparently, for those who claim to be civilized." Flint gave a bitter laugh. "I don't know if he brought his god with him. I'm sure his god was already here."  
   
Flint tossed his cigarette on the sidewalk, and ground it down with his foot.  
  
"Something sustained Thomas, though," Flint said, his voice quiet. "His belief, his strength, his perseverance. For my part, in his absence, I became something else. My own rebirth was on fury—on fear, on blood, on grief. In trying to serve Thomas' memory, I turned him into something else. The power of sacrifice and belief. It makes monsters of us all."  
  
Laura stared at Flint, watching the quick rising and falling of his chest. His face was frozen. Laura knew that fear. She knew that grief.  
  
She knew that _fury_.  
  
After clawing herself out of her own goddamn grave in the middle of the fucking night, she'd stumbled after that pulsating light. She'd followed it through the graveyard, through the fields, her feet sinking into the mud as the rain pelted down. Seeing a man hanging from a tree—realizing it was Shadow, _her_ Shadow, haloed in a bright golden light—had sent her running forward, desperate to reach him. She fought, fought in a way that she never thought she could, the men in white exploding into gore at her touch. She'd broken the rope, sending Shadow tumbling to the ground.  
  
...what if she hadn't gotten there in time?  
  
Her fear had quickly turned to rage. She'd gotten them all, in the end. _Every single one_.  
  
It had felt better than it should.  
  
"Mr. Flint, ah—" Sweeney struggled to find the right words.  
  
Laura let go of her hair, and took a drag on her cigarette. _Fuck_. She still got no buzz from it. "I'm sorry about your husband, Captain. Truly."  
  
The wind dropped, disappearing as quickly as it came. Laura took a deep breath in, still bemused by the novelty that she could go through the motions of taking a breath, even though she didn't need to. The air felt cleaner, now. There was only the slightest hint of brine.  
   
"My apologies," Flint said. "Old ghosts." Without so much as a glance to either Laura or Sweeney, Flint went back inside the store. The door banged harder than it should have. Laura and Sweeney turned hesitantly back to each other.  
   
" _You_ go in first," Sweeney said. "He likes you."  
   
Laura shook her head. "Hell no, Ginger Minge. You're a magical leprechaun king that makes him think of his grandparents, you have the nostalgia factor, _you_ go in first."  
  
" _You're_ the one with superhuman strength, not me."  
  
" _You're_ the one whose joint history distressed him enough to bring forth a small fucking wind tunnel, _you_ go in first."  
  
Sweeney tossed his cigarette onto the road. "Well... _shit_."

~

They'd ultimately played a best of three game of rock-paper-scissors to settle the argument. Laura lost—she'd punched Sweeney on the arm in frustrated retribution, though only lightly—leaving it to Laura to hesitantly push open the door to the bookstore. They found Flint leaning forward over the counter, his face bowed.  
   
"My apologies for what happened to your... _ah_... husband," Sweeney said. He was using Laura as a body shield again, the cowardly prick. "He must be of strong stock, to have survived so much."  
   
"He is," Flint said, his voice low.  
   
"As for what you, er, _became_ , grief turns us all—"  
   
Flint closed his eyes. "I don't need your platitudes nor your sympathy, Mad King."  
   
"Yessir."  
   
Laura hadn't even known someone could be turned into an actual deity. There were stories from mythology, sure—not that she'd found ancient history that interesting to begin with. No one seemed to learn from the dead, anyway, history just repeated itself. As far as Laura could tell, a god was something that just _was_ , not that she ever believed they'd existed at all. The last few weeks had been revelatory to say the least. Laura had previously considered there was now a chance that she was now a god, too, but she was pretty sure she was just plain undead. Did gods have flies? She didn't think gods had flies.  
  
...if she was now the Lord of the Flies she was going to be _pissed_.  
  
"What happened to you, whatever the fuck _you_ did..." Laura said to Flint. "Is that what it takes to make a god?"  
  
Sweeney groaned at Laura's question, dragging his hands down his face. "...christ..."  
   
Flint pulled himself upright and turned to them, his gaze half-lidded.  
  
"I'm not a god. Not like Wednesday and his ilk. But as to what I became, what it takes to no longer be human..." Flint licked his lips. "Blood. Sacrifice. Grief. Loss. Fear. Love. What else could there possibly be?"  
   
"No wonder Wednesday wanted you, then," Laura said.  
   
"Indeed."  
  
Laura grimaced at Flint. "So what made Wednesday?"  
   
Flint and Sweeney exchanged glances.  
   
"Wednesday's birth might have been comparatively mundane—I know very little of his brothers, mind—but what he became... that is something beyond my comprehension." Flint drummed his fingers on the counter. "In my understanding of the transformation Wednesday underwent by his own choosing, I don't think there has been a more apt precedent for self-sacrifice."  
  
"You've kidding me," Laura said. "If Sweeney turns into a giant chickenshit over _you_ —"  
  
Sweeney nudged his elbow into her shoulder. "Hush, dead wife."  
  
"—you're telling me Wednesday's worse again?"  
  
"If Wednesday is restored, I am nothing more than a momentary distraction," Flint said.  
   
Laura shrank back, nearly stepping into Sweeney in surprise. "Shit."  
  
And Shadow, _her_ Shadow, was now working for this guy? How the hell was Laura supposed to protect Shadow from Wednesday?  
  
"If Wotan gets what he wants..." Flint said. "It is humbling to think of how little could be left in his wake."  
  
The cheery ding from the door caused all three of them to start in surprise. Laura pivoted on her heel, only to see a tall, fair-haired man in a three-piece suit pushing the door open with his shoulder. He was loosening his tie with one hand as he drunk from his Starbucks styrofoam cup with the other. Through all of this, he somehow managed to keep the pile of papers from spilling out of the very full briefcase he had jammed under his elbow.  
  
The man froze when he saw the three of them staring at him, his drink suddenly forgotten.  
  
"Thomas," Flint said, his voice suddenly warm. "How was your day?"  
  
The man, apparently Flint's Thomas and by all accounts not an actual saint, leaned heavily against the doorway. He gazed at Flint with raised eyebrows. Laura had to hand it to him, Thomas looked quite good for a three hundred year old man, and not at all like someone who would hoard souvenirs. Laura had known all the personality types of the people who bought them, and they generally weren't quite so tall, bright eyed, and tanned.  
  
It took all kinds.  
  
"James?" Thomas said. "Some context to our visitors, if you would?"  
   
"This is Mr. Sweeney. He would be a leprechaun, former king. This is Laura Moon, she's..." Flint stopped, clearly struggling to find a polite way of describing her condition.  
   
"Undead," Laura said, turning to Thomas with a nod. "Very, very undead."  
  
"Laura, Mr. Sweeney—this is Thomas Hamilton," Flint said. He smiled at Thomas, looking a little proud, like Laura and Sweeney were being bestowed with a great and glorious gift by Thomas just being in their presence. Laura raised an eyebrow. Was she supposed to fucking curtsey, or something? It was immediately apparent that Thomas had Flint wrapped around his little finger.  
   
"Mrs. Moon. We've heard a lot about you." Thomas seemed to come back to himself, and closed the door behind him.  
   
"Good things?" Laura said.  
   
Thomas smiled at her, a tad blankly. "Ah. Good things. Yes."  
   
Being dead couldn't save you from wanting the ground to swallow you up in embarrassment, but at least she couldn't turn bright red any more when she blushed.  
   
Laura squared her shoulders. "Shadow told you the gory details of how I died?"  
   
It was hard not to feel pissed off. Yeah, she'd cheated on Shadow—that was _inexcusably_ shit, and she knew it—but that didn't mean it needed to be common knowledge that she'd died with Robbie's severed dick in her mouth. Shadow was usually quite private, so the fact he would be casual about something so personal hurt even more.  
   
"It wasn't Shadow who told us, not exactly... " Thomas placed his briefcase and his cup on the counter and unclipped his cuff links, gently placing them on his briefcase. Thomas rolled his wrists.  
   
"Wotan shared the circumstances of your death in graphic detail whilst your husband was visiting the bathroom," Flint said.   
   
Laura's mouth fell open. "Wednesday did _what_?"  
  
Thomas exchanged an awkward glance with Flint.  
  
"The piece of shit," Laura said. "That _piece_ of _shit_."  
  
"That's something we can agree on, Mrs. Moon," Thomas said. He gave her a small smile, and it was a easy smile, without any apparent judgment of her pre-mortem dick-chomping tendencies. So Thomas was one of _those_ types, then—the charmingly disarming type. Laura had never been like that, unfortunately. When Laura smiled, people often backed away. In her defense, her smiles tended to be forced, as the human populace at large were fucking idiots.  
  
Thomas' smile did work, though, Laura reluctantly found herself giving Thomas a little awkward grin of her own, feeling somewhat less like an undead, dick-biting sideshow. "Call me Laura. Mrs. Moon is my bitch of a mother."  
   
"Laura, then." Thomas stooped slightly to give Flint a kiss on his forehead, then frowned to himself. Thomas must have smelled the smoke. "You've had a very interesting day, clearly."  
   
"Clearly," Flint said, tilting his head up to Thomas and giving him a slightly crooked grin. "I can make you some tea in a minute."  
   
"I'd prefer a beer, honestly." Thomas looked to Laura and Sweeney. "No offense."  
   
"None taken." Sweeney waved his hands in agreement. "I could go for a beer myself."  
   
Flint picked up Thomas' styrofoam cup, and took a sip. He recoiled with a disgusted groan. "Damnit, Thomas—why don't you ever get enough sugar in your coffee?"  
  
"You're all the sweetener I need," Thomas said, dryly.  
  
Flint took another sip with a grimace, the tips of his ears going slightly pink.  
  
Laura slipped her hands into the pockets of her jacket. They had been like Flint and Thomas once, her and Shadow. Shadow always used to wait up for her when she came home from a late shift at work. He would bring her tea as she slumped on the couch with her feet propped on the coffee table to give some relief from the hours of standing. He'd sometimes massage her feet, and she'd melt. He'd take both his tea and coffee with sugar and milk, whereas she'd liked her coffee black, with as little sugar as she could manage.  
   
_Fuck_. Laura hunched further into her jacket. Three years apart, she'd cheated on him, and now they were also separated by life and death. Relationships surely had survived worse, right?  
   
....there was always Jerry Springer.  
  
"You should know that Wotan has been telling tall tales," Flint said, looking up at Thomas.  
  
Thomas leaned closer to Flint. "Has he now?"  
  
"His nickname for you has been taken more literally than intended."  
  
"Nickname?" Thomas wrinkled his nose. "Which one? There have been many, unfortunately, and very few that are flattering."  
  
Flint tried not smile, and completely failed. "It turns out that you are said to be a bonafide saint."  
  
Thomas raised his brows. "Is that so?"  
  
"That has been the rumor, yes," Sweeney said. "Been goin' around for awhile. Dunno who'd be mad enough to believe it."  
  
"Yeah," Laura said, smirking at Sweeney. "I wonder who would be mad enough to believe that."  
  
"In my experience, dead wife, it's better to err on the side of caution."  
  
Thomas was still having trouble processing this revelation. "Wotan has genuinely been telling people that I'm an actual saint?"  
  
"You bless me every time I go into battle, and you give me your protection," Flint said. "I hadn't been aware of this. I should show you my thanks more often."  
  
Thomas snorted. "You mean I worry endlessly about you to the point I'm getting more gray hair."  
  
"That's certainly a less dramatic way of putting it."  
  
Laura squinted at Thomas. She couldn't see any gray hair.  
  
He probably dyed it.  
  
Thomas took a deep breath, drumming his fingers on the counter. He nodded to himself. "I'm going to throttle Wotan."  
  
"You'll have to get in line," Laura said.  
  
Thomas reached out to take his cup back from Flint. Flint grunted in protest, holding the cup close to his chest.  
  
Thomas stared at him. "James, you don't even _like_ it."  
  
"As you said—it's been a interesting day." Flint took a noisy gulp from the cup, and handed it back.  
  
Thomas began to take sip, and frowned. He shook the cup, then paused. He shook it again. Empty, apparently. Laura couldn't exactly relate to his pain. She always used to be the coffee stealer between her and Shadow, but she had no guilt, because it was _coffee_.  
  
"You owe me," Thomas said to Flint, and dropped the cup into the waste paper basket with a sigh. "Well, Laura, Mr. Sweeney—I can assure you that any passing mention of sainthood is nothing more than a disparaging nickname."  
  
"Yeah, I know what that's like," Sweeney said, under his breath. Laura snorted.  
  
Thomas must have heard him, because he turned and looked up at Sweeney. "Are you a real leprechaun, then? Did I hear that correctly?" Thomas nudged Flint. "From what you've mentioned of your grandfather's tales, James, I didn't think one would be so tall."  
  
Or so foul-mouthed. Sweeney had single-handedly ruined the romanticized leprechaun image of Laura's childhood.  
  
Sweeney cleared his throat. " _Ahem_." He didn't say anymore, and Laura assumed he didn't want to fall afoul of Flint.  
   
"Thomas," Flint said, managing to sound affectionate and admonishing all at once.  
   
"Ah," Thomas said. "My apologies, that was rude."  
   
"Well, some of us are tall, Mr. Hamilton, and we tend to be full of surprises. If I may?" Sweeney said to Thomas, looking warily at Flint. Flint shrugged in response.  
   
Sweeney tentatively walked forward, keeping watch on Flint out of the corner of his eye. Sweeney showed Thomas his empty hand, and then reached forward, plucking a gold coin from Thomas' breast pocket. He dropped it in Thomas' palm. Thomas huffed with laughter. Sweeney reached for the cuff of Thomas' suit, producing another gold coin. It joined the first coin in Thomas' palm. Very carefully, and still looking at Flint, Sweeney reached behind Thomas' ear. He pulled out another coin, tossing it deftly into the air before he caught it in his hand.  
  
Laura rolled her eyes. Well, that was one way to keep Sweeney on Flint's good side permanently—suck up and entertain his pretty-boy husband. Laura could punch holes in walls, but she was doubting that would impress Thomas in quite the same way.  
  
Sweeney was also keeping the snarky commentary about Flint's and Thomas' relationship to himself, too, the cowardly suck-up. No doubt it was because both Flint and Thomas were a hell of a lot more intimidating than Salim, who had to put up with a fortnight's worth of dick-related djinn jokes from Sweeney at Salim's expense.  
  
"How fascinating." Thomas took the coin from Sweeney, his eyes wide in astonishment. Thomas abruptly grinned in delight, and it was bright and boyish grin. It was a smile like Shadow's. Even prison hadn't stopped Shadow's smile—that wide and cheeky grin just for Laura.  
  
Shadow hadn't smiled at Laura like that since she'd come back from the dead. Well, the undead.  
  
"How is this possible?" Thomas held a coin up to the light. He turned it from side to side in his fingers, clearly mesmerized. Flint's gaze had also caught on the coin, but his lips were pressed together in a tight line.  
   
Sweeney ducked his head in a bow. "One of my many, many talents, Mr. Hamilton."  
   
"Just 'Thomas' is fine. Do I keep these as an investment, or would you prefer I give them back?" Thomas said.  
   
"I won't complain if you hand 'em back—still not entirely sure they're infinite."  
  
"You're Irish, James, why can't you do that?" Thomas said.  
   
"Pulling gold out of thin air has never been one of my gifts. Sorry to disappoint." Flint still seemed preoccupied, staring at the coins in Thomas' hands. Laura didn't know what the big deal was. Judging by the bookstore—and Thomas' finely tailored suit—they didn't exactly look hard up for money.  
  
Thomas' gaze flicked between Flint's face and the gold in Thomas' hands. " _James_." Thomas' voice was gentle. "James?"  
  
Flint shook himself, almost like he was coming out of a trance. "Distracted. Old gold, old ghosts." There was a bittersweet twist to Flint's mouth. Thomas seemed to understand enough to leave it alone.  
   
Thomas turned to Laura and Sweeney, gesturing with the gold coins in his hands. "So, a beer? My treat."  
   
"People don't usually take the gold as payment," Laura said. "Believe me, I've tried."  
  
Sweeney nodded in agreement.  
  
Thomas' shoulders sagged. "Ah."

~

They ended up going to a pub two streets over for beers, and staying long enough that the beers became an early dinner. Well, for everyone but Laura. She'd ordered some vodka, then asked for a kid's coloring book and some crayons to entertain herself with while the other three ate. She was sure she was a sight, a young woman in dark glasses flicking a way the odd fly as she filled in a Winnie the Pooh knockoff coloring book, frowning all the while. Pooh Bear looked more like a deflating balloon animal than a bear.  
  
She colored him red out of spite.  
   
"Your husband seems pleasant enough," Flint said to Laura.  
   
"He has a fine taste in books, too." Thomas stole some fries from Flint's plate while Flint was distracted. Laura suspected it was payback for the coffee from earlier.  
   
"Your man's a prick," Sweeney said.  
   
Laura gave Sweeney a pointed look. "He's very sweet."  
   
"He's too decent to be caught up in Wednesday's shit." Flint gestured to the waiter to bring them more beers.  
   
Laura held up her hands. "So exactly _how_ fucked are we if Wednesday gets what he wants?"  
   
Flint didn't blink. "Fucked."  
   
"Completely fucked," Sweeney said.  
  
" _Properly_ fucked." Thomas took a swig of the last of his beer.  
   
Laura sighed. She scribbled over knock-off Winnie the Pooh's face in vengeance.

~

Three hours later, and with the aid of a few drinks, Sweeney had gotten over his fear of Flint to the point he began to teach him some Irish folk songs. Flint's voice was mostly in tune, his accent seemingly more than serviceable. Thomas had watched the drunken proceedings unfold in barely contained amusement, trying to hide his smile behind his hand.  
   
"You need a stronger 'r', Mr. Flint," Sweeney said, his arm around Flint's shoulders.  
   
"Well, he was a pirate once. He's good at his 'r's," Thomas said.  
   
"Thomas, that's fucking _terrible_." To his credit, Flint only slurred a little at Thomas' name. Laura wasn't sure at what point Thomas had lost his suit jacket entirely, or exactly when Flint had acquired both Thomas' tie and waistcoat.  
   
It had been a nice evening, though. A touch of normalcy. How fucking long had that been? Well, normalcy drinking with three kinda-demigod-deities, or whatever the hell they were. Certainly not human, at any rate. Between the three men, they'd drunk more than enough to give a normal human being alcohol poisoning. The waiters kept looking at them in astonishment.  
  
Still, it was normalcy nonetheless, even if Laura was stuck with sunglasses, flies, and a coloring book.  
   
Distracted by her coloring, and the loud singing from Captain Redbeard and The Ginger Minge—she'd changed her mind about any possibility of them starting a band, ow, her poor ears—it had taken her awhile to notice that Flint was doing an impressive job of downing the beers by himself. Flint seemed to be outdrinking Thomas, three beers to one. Thomas had sighed when he'd noticed, reluctantly pushing his own glass to the side and slouching back in his chair.  
   
Thomas and Shadow would have gotten along quite well. It was always the sensible ones—the sensible ones with their bright eyes and boyish smiles and surprisingly buff arms. For someone who had been a two-bit thief, Shadow was a bit of a goody-two-shoes. Any time they went out, he was the designated driver, keeping an eye on her.  
  
Laura wasn't sure what that made her and Flint in the relationship scheme of things.  
  
A bit fucked up, probably.  
   
"You think you've got gold?" Flint said suddenly to Sweeney, causing Sweeney to jerk in surprise. "I've seen _mountains_ of it."  
  
Sweeney looked immediately interested. "Izzat so?"  
   
"It was spread across sandy shores. A wreckage. Desperate men hoarding it, full of greed and fear."  
   
"Pirate gold?" Sweeney tried to contain his curiosity, and failed completely.  
   
"Of a kind," Flint said.  
   
Pirate gold. Leprechaun gold. It was still gold at the end of the day, and unless she was able to spend it, Laura didn't give a shit about it. With three broad swipes of her crayon, Laura gave Not-Piglet an orange moustache and beard. Huh. He almost looked like Sweeney.  
   
"Let me tell you a story," Flint said. "A story of a Spaniard named Vasquez."  
  
Thomas poured himself a glass of water, watching Flint with a thoughtful expression on his face.  
   
"Vasquez worked in naval intelligence," Flint said. "He was one of the top agents for The Casa de Contratacion. His responsibility for one particular ship, with a cargo so valuable that even the king of Spain himself was anxious to see her sail. Vasquez was aware of this, but knew that due to the dangers of storm season, there could be no escort to guard her."  
  
Sweeney watched Flint with rapt attention, like a kid at story time. Laura absentmindedly scribbled a yellow crayon over Not-Tigger's face in her coloring book.  
   
"The ship's name was L'Urca de Lima. Her route was a state secret, her exact course only to be known to her captain."  
   
In spite of herself, Laura leaned closer to Flint, just in case she missed a word. Not that she was that interested, or anything.  
   
"The ship itself carried a boon like few others." Flint paused. "A cargo in excess of five million."  
   
Sweeney whistled, banging his hand on the table. "Fucking _damn_."  
   
"What would that be worth now?" Laura said. She tried—and utterly failed—to do the math in her head.  
   
"A very rough estimate would equal well over two hundred million dollars," Thomas said, a little amused, with his head tilted to the side. "It was an expensive cargo to have on just one ship."  
   
Sweeney laughed in agreement. "No kiddin'. That's a _lot_ of fucking gold."  
   
"How did it end?" Laura said to Flint, her coloring book forgotten. "You got the gold, right?"  
   
Her question stopped Flint short, breaking him from his reverie. Thomas dropped his gaze, his face unreadable.  
  
Flint's jaw worked for a moment, and then he swallowed, looking down at his drink. "You ask how it ended? There was betrayal, death, misery, and a Man o' War."  
  
"You were betrayed?" Laura said.  
  
Thomas made a low, frustrated sound, his brows raised at Laura.  
  
"I betrayed others and was betrayed in turn, how else do these stories end?" Flint said. He leaned heavily on the table.  
  
Thomas nudged Laura's leg under the table with his foot, his brows still raised.  
  
"Okay, okay. Sorry," Laura said. "Shouldn't have asked."  
  
If curiosity was said to have killed the cat, at least Laura couldn't die again if she was already dead. Thomas' unimpressed stare was certainly trying otherwise, though.  
  
Thomas reached over to gently brush some of Flint's hair back from his face. "I think it's about time we finished for the night, don't you?"  
  
"We should get a hotel," Laura said, wondering what kind of dives Boston would have to offer. It couldn't be worse than some of the shitholes they'd stayed in, for the nights when they really needed to stretch out their backs after days of driving. For all the skeevy motels they'd stayed in, somehow the worst had been the neighbor that started belting out Willie Nelson at three o'clock in the morning. At least Laura's father would have enjoyed it.  
   
"No, we have spare beds," Flint said, leaning into Thomas. His voice was rough, and far louder than what was appropriate. "I'd be doing my grandparents a disservice not to show a leprechaun hospitality."  
   
Judging by the ear to ear grin, Sweeney was extremely flattered at that.

~

It turned out that none of them were sober enough to drive Thomas' car home, not even Thomas, so the four of them fitting into a taxi was an experience. Thomas was tall and broad, Flint was broader again, and Sweeney towered over them both. Laura immediately shotgunned the front seat, not wanting to get crushed in the back. The taxi driver flicked away one of her flies in confusion.  
   
She turned to see a very disgruntled and uncomfortable Thomas with a sleepy Flint on his shoulder, and an equally dozy Sweeney leaning against Thomas' head. Thomas saw her smirking at him, and he frowned.  
   
"I now find myself wondering if I should have kept the damn gold," Thomas said, trying to save himself from some of Sweeney's weight with a gentle push to Sweeney's side. Sweeney didn't so much as budge.  
  
"You know, it could be worse," Laura said.  
  
Thomas stared at her. "How could it possibly be worse?"  
   
"Don't know. I said it _could_ be."  
  
Thomas sighed, and turned to rest his chin on Flint's head. Sweeney's head slumped over, leaving him propped against Thomas' shoulder. Laura hoped he would get a crick in his neck.

~

Flint and Thomas lived in a three storey townhouse, about ten minutes away from the bookstore. It was handsome, filled with dark polished wooden floorboards and furniture. Books were everywhere, books in all sizes, colors, and languages. Books both new and old. Stacks of loose paper were throughout the house, mostly neat, though some piles were not as concise as others. It turned out Thomas was a lecturer of some kind—one of those doctors who wasn't really an actual doctor. According to Flint, Thomas had apparently been procrastinating over how many papers he was yet to assess.  
  
"I'm not procrastinating, James, I'm just..." Thomas trailed off. "Procrastinating, yes."  
  
Laura looked in horror at the piles of paper. She was the perpetually messy one to Shadow's neat freak, and even she wanted to tidy them up. "How long have you been a professor?"  
  
Thomas stifled a yawn **.** "It's been quite a few years now. I was a lawyer before then, but eventually had to move on. I always know we've been in one location for too long when older acquaintances at dinner parties start to compliment how good we look for our age."  
  
"But you do look good for your age," Flint said, still no way near sober. His arm was around Thomas' waist, using Thomas to support himself.  Thomas absentmindedly patted Flint's shoulder in response.  
  
"Admittedly it does get exhausting changing your identity every decade or two," Thomas said. "Technology is becoming too advanced to keep ahead of."  
  
Flint snorted at that. "Are you criticizing my skills, my lord?"  
  
Thomas rolled his eyes. "Of course not, dear."  
  
Laura had seen two computers and neatly stacked boxes of computer parts underneath Thomas' strewn papers, each box perfectly labelled. Flint's handiwork, then. Every cabinet Laura walked past was in the throes of kitchy souvenir hell, but it was all neatly displayed, at least—Flint's handiwork again, no doubt—including the two brightly colored plastic roosters that were sitting on the dining room table.  
  
She wasn't sure that the kitchy souvenirs complimented the photographs and paintings that covered the walls, though. There were tourist pictures from New York, Las Vegas, California, and the Grand Canyon, and a national park Laura didn't know the name off. She liked the paintings, at least—the sprawling landscapes, the people, and the towering ships. A painting of the USS Constitution hung in the front hallway, and when Laura squinted, she could see 'J. McGraw' on the bottom right.  
   
An old painting of a beautiful woman in 18th century finery was in the pride of place in the lounge. The woman had bright brown eyes and a clever twist to her mouth. Laura got up close to the painting, taking in the details of the pearls, the lace, and the lush fabric. 'J. McGraw' once again. It wasn't rocket science to put together that J. McGraw was most likely James Flint, especially considering how old the painting looked.  
  
" _God-fuckin'-damn_." Sweeney came to a stop beside Laura. "What a woman."  
  
Laura looked him up and down. "What the hell would you know about women?"  
  
Sweeney straightened his jacket, and lifted his chin. He almost looked respectable. "I'll have you know that I am considered to be very desirable among women. It's the height and beard." He paused. "And my winning personality."  
  
Sweeney's leading man charm was ruined by the fact that he kept shifting from side to side, as if he was having trouble keeping himself upright.  
  
"I bet you are, champ." Laura gave Sweeney a sharp nudge, and he stumbled, cursing, only just catching himself on a lounge chair.

~

"I'm not sure our guest bed is going to be all that comfortable or quite long enough for you, Mr. Sweeney," Thomas said, with Flint still leaning heavily against his side.  
   
"Believe me, this is a taste of absolute fuckin' paradise. We're most grateful for your help and your blessings, Saint Thomas."  
  
Flint snorted, his laugh partially muffled by Thomas' shoulder.  
  
Thomas gave Sweeney a brittle smile.   "...still not an _actual_ saint..."  
   
Sweeney, in his tipsiness, bowed to Thomas, and saluted Flint a goodnight. The salute entertained Flint endlessly for whatever reason, and Flint chuckled to himself as he let Thomas coax him to bed. Laura watched them leave in equal parts amusement and jealousy. As Flint pushed open the door to their room, he leaned up to whisper something in Thomas' ear, causing Thomas to laugh out loud in turn. Thomas shook his head, still grinning, and pushed Flint into their room. The door shut behind them.  
  
Laura found herself alone in the hallway, with her only company the ticking of a clock. She tugged her jacket closer.  
  
After a drunken night out, Shadow would sometimes pick Laura up and carry her through the front door, humming the bridal theme all the while, even in the days before they were married. With Laura's permission, he would sometimes toss her on the bed, bellowing, "Cannonball!" and jump on the bed after her. Shadow was ticklish, so she always got her payback, and he'd throw a pillow or two at her face to keep her at bay.  
  
The guest room Thomas had offered Laura was next to Sweeney, which she thought was both kind and very unkind of Thomas, considering Sweeney's snoring. Thomas told her to run the air conditioning as cold as she needed to, which was a relief.  
  
She had no interest in decomposing further.  
  
After toeing off her shoes, Laura stretched herself out on the bed. The sheets were clean and crisp, and Laura squirmed around in childish delight, enjoying the feeling of fresh linen. She'd never managed to get the sheets so crisp—that was something her bitch of a mother was a master at. In retrospect, it was one of her few redeeming qualities.  
  
Just for a moment, in a little townhouse in Boston with a room all to herself, Laura could pretend she was an actual, not-so-dead human being again. It was a nice guest room, too, clean and homely, with paintings on the walls—a beach, some birds she didn't recognize, and an expensive looking yacht. There were more than a few photos, too, and it looked like Flint and Thomas had visited Hawaii. Thomas was rosy and tanned with sunglasses, whilst Flint was more freckle than man. They were smiling, though.  
  
Laura turned away from the photos. She grabbed one of the pillows, and turned it on its side, so she could wrap her arm around it. She pressed her cheek against the soft cotton.  
   
Laura hadn't gone on that many vacations with Shadow. They didn't have a lot of money, and Laura loathed tourist traps. Shadow was a big kid at heart, and when he'd asked if they could go to Disney World, she'd reluctantly agreed—after a lot of deliberating. Shadow had been so excited when she'd told him, spinning her around until they were both dizzy.  
  
She'd nearly thrown up her breakfast.  
  
Even though the trip had made _Shadow_ happy, Laura got very little enjoyment out of the whole ordeal. She had just wanted to get the saccharine, teeth-grinding horror of the Disney experience over with. They did that Drinking Around The World Epcot challenge thing, at least, with Laura determinedly drinking her way through Disney World to blur out the singing, the cheer, and nauseatingly happy families. The day had ended with the two of them trying to enact A Whole New World in their hotel room with the duvet, and inevitably falling on the floor.  
  
It hadn't been their finest moment.

~

When Laura finally fell asleep, it was with her face buried into the pillow, preoccupied by the memory of Shadow's off-key singing echoing in her head, and the ghostly touch of his hand tangled into her curls. She'd dozed on and off for a few hours, her sleep disturbed only by Sweeney's guttural snores. It was a muffled thud from downstairs that woke her up with a start. She sat up, wincing.  
  
Well, fuck. Her stitching certainly wasn't getting any better.

~

It was Thomas that Laura found in the kitchen. He had surprisingly messy hair, and he'd left the lights low. He was wearing a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, making himself a cup of tea. He looked up at her in surprise. "Can't sleep, Laura?"  
   
"Yeah, I missed sleeping in the ice cream truck. You?"  
   
Thomas poured some hot water into his cup. "It's been... an unusual day. I've had one too many of those recently."  
   
"Can I ask you something?"  
   
Thomas turned to her fully now, propping his hip on the counter. "It depends."  
   
"When you were imprisoned, when you were brought here from England..."  
   
"James told you?" Thomas looked truly surprised, though not as angry as she thought he'd be.  
   
"Yeah. King Sweeney was brought to America via a maid on a prison ship, a few years after you. Indentured servitude? Something like that."  
   
"That explains a few things for James. The gold. The beers. The melancholy." Thomas looked down at his cup. "Wotan brought up the past when he visited, and, well..."  
  
Laura felt a squirm of guilt at that. She hadn't helped by prying at dinner. "Sorry."  
  
Thomas nodded, stirring his tea thoughtfully. "What happened to the maid?"  
   
"Kids, grand-kids. Happy or sad ending, I guess, depending on whether or not you like kids."  
   
Thomas smiled, and sipped his tea. "Happy, then."  
   
Thomas and Flint's kitchen was relatively kitchy souvenir free, though not lacking in expensive appliances. Unlike the rest of the house, there were only a few photographs on the walls. One photo was of a grinning Flint with one of the biggest fish Laura had ever seen, and there was another of him leaning over a barbeque wearing a 'Kiss The Cook' apron. The biggest photo showed a smiling Thomas standing in uniform with what must have been his soccer team, their arms draped around each other, a gold trophy in hand. Their faces were dirty, but their smiles were broad.  
  
Thomas and Flint were so... mundane. Happy, but mundane. Laura's parents were mundane, with their piousness and their white picket fences, and it was something she'd never wanted for herself. Foiling Shadow's gambit at the casino when they'd first met had been the most excitement she'd had in years, something different in her bullshit beige life. But then the years passed, and Shadow was content with monotony, with safety, as long as he was with her. It had never been enough for Laura.  
  
But, _now_... fuck.  
  
She'd do anything to have it back.  
  
Shadow went forward with the casino mini-heist for her, to make _her_ happy, and he was the one who suffered the consequences. He'd spent three years in prison, and Laura knew one of the things that had kept him going was counting down the days until he could come home to her—and what jolly fucking homecoming that would have been, with her boring obituary the icing on the _Congrats on Your Dead Cheating Wife!_ cake.  
  
Laura looked uncertainly at Thomas. "What kept you going, when you were in prison?"  
  
Thomas shifted his weight, considering Laura with a frown. She thought he wasn't going to answer her, but then he sighed.

"It was hope, I suppose. I had little else. I clung to it, first out of desperation, then out of habit. Belief in James, and in my wife, Miranda. Belief that they would find me. Belief that they were safe, that they were together... that they had found some measure of happiness. That the horror was but a temporary thing," Thomas said. "But the fates were cruel, predictably. James was returned to me, but Miranda was taken from both of us. A devil's bargain. I could have one, not both."  
  
Thomas looked down at his teacup.  
  
"Day to day, though, I focused on the menial things, the few things that I could control. ' _When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive, to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love'_."  
  
Was that what kept Shadow going? Shadow had always been the methodical sort, taking a day at a time, and each obstacle as it came. God, he was so damn _sensible._  
  
"Well, that's fine for _some_ ," Laura said, "but I'm shit out of luck, not being able to breathe and all."  
  
Thomas raised his brows. "But you can still think. You can still love. Sometimes, that's all we have."  
   
Thinking of Shadow's smile, Shadow's bright eyes, Shadow's warmth, Shadow's _light_... yeah, Laura could get that.  
  
"Do you always quote philosophers at people?" Laura said.  
  
"Only dead philosophers, and only when people accost me whilst I'm drinking tea in the middle of the night."  
  
"Oh. Sorry."  
   
Thomas lifted up his cup in agreement.  
   
"Look. I didn't really believe anything in life," Laura said, tugging at her jacket. "I wasn't happy in life. Ever. Even with Shadow. I don't know what to believe in death."  
   
"There's no easy answer to that, unfortunately." Thomas put his cup of tea to the side, bracing himself on the kitchen counter. "Alas ' _some is rich, some is poor, that's the way the world is—but I don't believe in lying back, saying how bad your luck is'_."  
   
"Oh, come the fuck on. That doesn't sound like a dead philosopher."  
   
"No, you're right, though I do enjoy a lot of their philosophy in general." Thomas smiled. "The Clash, circa 1980.''  
   
Laura snorted in surprise. "Didn't think you'd be the type, Doc."  
   
"They're an old favorite." Thomas ran his fingers through his hair. "Quoting them is a bit indulgent of me, really, as someone who was born into money."  
   
Laura found it hard to fight back a smile. He really was good at being irritatingly disarming. Damn Captain Flint, and damn his mildly charming husband.  
  
"I guess that's what kept Shadow going," Laura said. "I hope it was."  
  
"He seemed to be fond of Herodotus' _Histories_ —"  
  
"Seriously? _Another_ dead philosopher?"  
  
Thomas' laugh was a soft huff. "Another very, very dead philosopher."  
  
"You really need to diversify."  
  
"I've always been partial to Herodotus' _'the destiny of man is in his own soul'_ ," Thomas said. "I'm sure Shadow may have found it of similar use."  
  
Shadow was a thoughtful man, always had been, certainly in comparison to some of the shitty dickheads Laura had dated over the years. The philosophy thing was new for Shadow, though. Laura had never cared much for philosophy herself—a bunch of dead all-knowing pricks lecturing from beyond the grave.  
  
The joke was on them, they were still dead, whilst Laura walked the earth, flies and all.  
  
"Can I help you with anything else, Laura?" Thomas said to her, his eyes tired, but kind.  
   
"Do you have a needle and thread?" Laura said, as she squirmed uncomfortably. She bunched her jacket tighter to her chest. "I may be unraveling in your kitchen. Literally."

~

Breakfast the next morning had been quite sedate, with a lot of coffee, toast, and some sugary cereals. None for Laura, of course. When Laura walked into the kitchen, she'd enjoyed the sight of two thoroughly hungover redheads. Neither Thomas nor Flint were exactly small men, and their furniture matched their stature. Even then, Sweeney couldn't fit his knees under the table, and had turned his chair sideways so that he could stretched out his legs.  
  
"Captain Crunch." Laura nodded to Flint in greeting. "Big Bird." Laura gave Sweeney the middle finger. He returned the gesture, with a jaw-cracking yawn.  
  
Flint stared blankly at Laura for a moment, and then shook his head. "...if you're looking for Thomas, he's gone to pick up his baby."  
  
"What, he's got a kid?" Laura said, truly surprised. There was no hint of a baby in the house, no toys, no books, no clothes. Nothing.  
  
Flint woke up a little more at that. "No. The baby is his car."  
  
"Now that's rough," Laura said, genuinely full of sympathy. "I've had a few boyfriends like that. Total gearheads."  
  
"I honestly don't know why Thomas bothers." Flint stared down at his cup of coffee. "It's just a Prius."  
  
Thomas not being around did leave Laura with an awkward situation, which was attempting half-way decent conversation with two very hungover men. So much for Irishmen holding their drink.  
  
Laura sat down, and propped her chin on her hands. She watched Sweeney drowning his toast in strawberry jam. It was more strawberry jam than toast, really.  
  
"Jealous, dead wife?" Sweeney said.  
  
"No," Laura said, fantasizing about jam and peanut butter, slathered on fresh bread. "Enjoy your diabetes."  
  
One of her flies landed on Sweeney's shoulder.  
  
"So, you paint, then?" Laura said to Flint.  
  
Flint nodded, chewing on his toast. He swallowed.  
  
"I had always been mediocre at best, but after I became _this_ —" Flint gestured to himself  "—three hundred years gave me a lot of time to practice."  
  
"Touché."  
  
"Make any money out of it?" Sweeney said. He was trying to eat his toast with some sense of decorum, and was failing miserably.  
  
"Some. Under a few aliases. I enjoy the drama." Flint didn't smile.

~

"You're welcome to stay," Flint said, with a yawning Thomas towering over his shoulder. The four of them were outside _The Walrus,_ standing next to the piece of shit ice cream truck. If Laura was honest, they'd be lucky if the ice cream truck survived long enough to get to Sweeney's resurrecting friend, let along Wisconsin.  
  
"Despite the help of extra thread—and thank you for that, Dr. Hamilton—she ain't getting any more alive, so we should be heading off." Sweeney's words and Sweeney's expression said something different, and Laura was pretty sure he'd prefer to stay and hear more pirate tales from Flint.  Sweeney kept blinking rapidly and rubbing his forehead. Laura assumed the light wasn't doing wonders for his hangover.  
   
"Good luck," Flint said, his voice rough, but genuine. "Don't let your guard down."  
   
Thomas gave Laura a lazy smile."If you see Wotan, you can tell him exactly where he can insert his House on the Rock souvenir spoon."  
   
They'd shaken hands as a goodbye.  
   
Flint's handshake to Laura had been cordial and firm. "Take care of yourself, and keep an eye on your husband. He'll need all the help he can get."  
   
When Thomas went to shake Laura's hand, he ducked his head low so that he could whisper in Laura's ear. "To quote one of last night's dead philosophers—' _it is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live'._ Good luck to you, Laura, and come back to visit. Bring Shadow with you."  
   
Laura hadn't said goodbye after that, feeling frustratingly exposed. Her confessional therapy session with Preacher Hamilton had seemed like a good idea in the middle of the night after worrying over Shadow, but in the light of day, having to look Thomas in the eye, she wished she'd never been stupid enough to mention it. It was too private, too much—and not something to be commentated on by a three-hundred-year-old philosophy nerd.  
  
Laura acknowledged Flint and Thomas with nothing more than a tight smile as they drove off, with Sweeney beeping the horn as they pulled away from the curb.  
   
" _Fuck_ ," Laura said. Flint's husband could be a bit of a bastard when he wanted to. What happened to leaving the dead to rest in peace?  
   
"What?" Sweeney looked curious, as he used one hand to steer and the other to try and light the cigarette he had jammed between his teeth.  
   
Laura settled back into the car seat, resting her head against the window. "Nothing. It's nothing."  
   
...she'd have to send Thomas a souvenir from House on the Rock in thanks, Laura supposed.

**Author's Note:**

> -Flint and Thomas were married the day it was legalized, and had a big 'fuck you' round of drinks for Alfred Hamilton. The honeymoon lasted a year—as an extra fuck you to Alfred Hamilton—because when you've lived for three hundred years, time is relative.
> 
> -Flint makes sure to have a very robust LGBTIQA section in the bookstore, and is only 50% of his usual 100% intimidating level when young teenagers come in and awkwardly browse. As Thomas has pointed out, Flint is actually quite sweet to them. For the especially fearful and hesitant kids, Flint will gently direct them to a youth hotline.
> 
> -Flint and Thomas still celebrate Miranda's birthday every year, though there is less cheer and more grief. They also still celebrate Miranda's and Thomas' wedding anniversary. When they had their wedding rings made, there was a third made, just for her. It sits on the mantelpiece, under her portrait. The portrait doesn't exactly look like Miranda, as Flint was not as practiced at portraits when he painted it, but it does capture her beauty, wit, and charm.
> 
> -Thomas has a longstanding rivalry with Wednesday's ravens. They don't get along. Putting it mildly. 
> 
> -Thomas and Flint have very differing tastes in music. This makes for very argumentative road trips. Thomas likes his rock and punk music, and Flint is still pretending music hasn't moved on since the 70s. ACDC vs. The Carpenters make for fun roadtrips. They both have a soft spot for Purcell in Miranda's stead.
> 
> -Thomas loves team sports, and drags Flint to Fenway Park at every opportunity. Flint just goes partially for the greasy food, partially to make Thomas happy. When Thomas has a casual soccer game with his own team, Flint sneaks in catch-up reading on his Kindle whenever he can. When Thomas' team wins, Flint does get quite smug, and will happily give the wives/husbands/partners of the rival team the middle finger if needed. 
> 
> -Thomas doesn't often make it a habit of quoting dead philosophers at people outside of seduction techniques, let alone in the middle of night, but Laura did bring it up.
> 
> \------
> 
> -I did break the continuity from both the show and the book where it seems like 'Wednesday' begins to refer to himself as Wednesday around the time he meets Shadow.
> 
> -The Maroons in Black Sails seem to be inspired by the Jamaica Maroons, who did share the tales of Anansi. Even if they didn't within the world of Black Sails, Wednesday lazily generalizing seemed depressingly... Wednesday.
> 
> -Wednesday quotes the beginning of William Ernest Henley's 'Madam's Life A Piece In Bloom' to the police officer in Episode 5 of American Gods. Wednesday quotes a line from 'Invictus' here, and considering who Wednesday is, the line seemed suitably ironic. As a fun bonus, Henley is also who Robert Louis Stevenson drew inspiration from in creating Long John Silver, as the two were close friends. Since Long John Silver was an actual historical figure within this continuity, it made referencing the connection a bit too muddled, sadly.
> 
> -Shadow is given a copy of Herodotus' Histories by his bunkmate in prison, as per the original novel. 
> 
> -re: Sweeney, it can be a very dangerous game writing accents. I went back and specifically checked across the episodes, and Sweeney drops his 'g's and abbreviates as much as he doesn't. I tried to go with what had the best flow. 
> 
> -I've only really read the first few chapters of American Gods (Wednesday of the books is extremely unnerving), and only know the very, very broad strokes of what happens within the novel. The Wednesday of the books would have a very different relationship with Flint and Thomas: fairly no bullshit, brisk, and professional. They'd probably have very mutually respectful catch-ups with a good bottle of red.
> 
> -Thank you (and curse you!) to [Kay](https://thefvckingwarship.tumblr.com) for sparking off the idea that lead to this American Gods/Black Sails rabbit hole. I'd thrown around a few crossover variations on how the idea could work, but Kay's musings had me booting up Microsoft Word in a crazed frenzy. Thank you!
> 
> -[Rebloggable](http://redwhale.tumblr.com/post/169008351980/somewhere-in-boston-redwhale-black-sails) (it's totally a word) for the Tumblr crowd. Comments and critiques are appreciated! :) This unintentionally ended up being a funny fish of an experimental fic, due to being dialogue heavy and pretty much set in one room for both parts of the story. (Seven hellish drafts later...)


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